


sugar, butter, flour

by andtimestoodstill



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Closeted Character, Doctor Eddie Kaspbrak, Doctor/Patient, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Infidelity, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Past Character Death, Pie, SO MUCH PIE, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), Unhealthy Relationships, Waiter at a Pie Diner Richie Tozier, Waitress (the musical) AU, but only very briefly - Freeform, its went and maggie, like a lot, sorry connor audra & myra but the protags are in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24904486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andtimestoodstill/pseuds/andtimestoodstill
Summary: Dr. Kaspbrak spoke at a speed and fervor Richie had only ever heard from Chipmunks (as in Alvin and the).(That is to say, Richie was both enamored and deeply endeared by this man)“Mr. Tozier?”“Does doctor-patient confidentiality start the moment you walk in the room?”“Uh,” Dr. Kaspbrak paused. “Yes?”“Cool, because I think Dr. Keene is a creepy son of a bitch and the only reason, I see him is because Dr. Phillips downstairs stopped letting me make appointments with her when I turned 21.”Dr. Kaspbrak, at Richie’s confession, cracked a smile that was quickly smothered by a carefully contained expression. “Is that right?”(In which it only takes a taste when it's something special)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 46
Kudos: 230





	1. even doubt can be delicious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my first fic in this fandom, but I have been a lurker for some time. Two things before we begin:
> 
> 1\. This fic is _inspired_ by Waitress (the musical more so than the movie, but I borrow elements from both) not a Waitress AU. That is to say, there will be no babies. But there will be pie. And angst. And kissing. 
> 
> 2\. The doctor/patient and romantic relationships do overlap _slightly_ ; but I always thought it was a little weird so I changed it. It doesn't happen until chapter two, and I will be sure to properly warn you for it.

Richie Tozier was a man of habit. He woke up at 4:30 every morning, usually before the sun started to creep over the horizon, rolling out of bed and slinking into the kitchen. Before brushing his teeth, or pouring himself a cup of coffee, Richie turned on his oven. The ancient hunk of metal took a long time to pre-heat, so Richie set the dial to 350 before padding into the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Richie had his morning routine down to a science, brushing his teeth and wrestling his curly hair into something semi-presentable with just enough time to roll out and line a fluted pan with the pie dough he had made the day before, and sticking it into the oven to blind bake.

While the crust was baking, Richie prepped his filling. This was the only place that his day ever deviated from the norm. Richie believed that anything in his life could be solved by pie; if not by eating it, then by making it.

Richie had been making the special pie of the day at Joe’s Pie Diner close to 15 years now, and over those years, Richie had used his baking to work through every obstacle life threw at him. The pastry was his diary, all his true feelings and hopes and fears hidden in flaky pie crust and sticky-sweet fillings.

And maybe it was strange to broadcast all your deepest fears to the citizens of the small town you were born and lived (and probably would die) in; but the people who ate Richie’s pies didn’t know that his secrets were disguised in them.

Hiding in plain sight.

It was therapeutic as talking to some shrink, and it was sure as shit cheaper than actual therapy. The time Richie spent in his kitchen baking was the time he spent working through the thoughts that plagued him and the fires that paralyzed him.

 _That’s what baking can do, Sweets_ , his mother used to say.

The oven beeped, and Richie took a potholder in one hand to extract the pie from the oven. He dumped the ceramic baking beans into a jar on the counter and threw away the foil. With a final stir, Richie poured the mixture of sliced peaches, bourbon, and sugar into the crust. He had a bit of dough left over, rolling it out and slicing it into long strips to do a classic lattice top.

Richie stuck the pie in the oven and started on the dishes, leaving the bowl and utensils to dry on the dish drainer. He looked over at the microwave to check the time; 5:43. He wasn’t going to be late, but Connor would be up soon—

“Hey Babe,” the man in question said, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Morning,” Richie said, wiping soapy water off the counter.

“Coffee?” Connor asked, blonde hair sticking up on one side; it was objectively cute. Unfortunately, Richie wasn’t feeling all that magnanimous that morning.

“It’s in the pot, I gotta get ready for work.” He moved to pass Connor, making his way to their bedroom to get dressed, but his boyfriend caught his arm.

“You’ve been baking all morning, where’s my sugar, Sugar?” he asked, corner of his mouth lifting in a sleepy half smile. Richie pressed a kiss to Connor’s stubbly cheek.

Connor just rolled his eyes, and swatted at Richie’s ass; a dismissal if he’s ever seen one.

“I’m not kissing you till you brush your fucking teeth!” Richie called behind him. He wondered if he sounded as far away to Connor as he felt.

Richie had been dating Connor Bowers off and on since they were in high school. Well, _dating_ was a strong word; and a misleading one at that. The two men were deeply closeted, looking like nothing more than roommates living in some run-down bachelor pad.

The truth was that Richie and Connor were just too poor (Richie) and too irresponsible with money (Connor) to live in a place any nicer.

Richie got dressed for work, tucking in his uniform polo into his shorts and stuffing his feet into his shoes. With a weary sigh, he made his way back to the kitchen to wait for Connor to get ready. As promised, Richie kissed him once Connor had brushed his teeth; though now his boyfriend had coffee breath. While Connor puttered around the house, Richie packed his backpack with his lunch and wrapped up the pie for the commute to work. This, too, was part of the routine.

They couldn’t afford two cars, so Richie paid for half of Connor’s insurance and in return, Connor drove Richie to work every morning and picked him up in the afternoon. It was nowhere near a fair deal, but Richie didn’t know what else to do.

“Let’s go,” Connor grumbled, snapping Richie from his thoughts. They walked out to the car, Connor leading the way and Richie following in his wake. This was the way it always was outside of the four walls of their house; just two dudes being bros.

When Connor turned on the car, the speakers started blaring the oldies rock station. Richie refrained from rolling his eyes. Connor fancied himself some kind of up-and-coming Rock God, despite never having played in front of a crowd larger than 20 people—

“You done at 3?” Connor asked, like he did every morning.

“No, I have that doctor’s appointment, remember?”

They slowed to a stop at a red light, Connor turning to look at Richie, pale brows furrowed. “What?”

“You know, for that thing.”

“Babe, I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re talking about.” The light turned green and Connor continued through the sleepy streets of Derry, Maine.

Richie sighed, preparing himself to relay the importance of the appointment (yet again, seeing as he had told Connor all about it last week), when Connor scoffed. “Don’t fucking give me that.”

“What are you talking about?” Richie asked, his tone matching Connor’s sudden aggression.

“Sighing like that. There’s no reason for you to be so fucking passive aggressive all the time.”

“ _Passive_ aggressive?” Richie countered, genuinely appalled at the accusation. There was nothing _passive_ about it.

“I have other things in my life that require my attention, you know. It’s not the Richie Party all the time—”

“Oh, fuck you. The _Richie Party_ ,” he scoffed. “Is it so much to ask that you just fuckin’ listen to me when I’m speaking? Is that really so hard, Connor?”

Connor jerked the wheel to the right, pulling them off the main road and onto the shoulder. He shifted the truck into neutral and threw up the parking brake. “Get out of my car.”

Richie knew better than to argue with him, he also didn’t want to spend another fucking second in this car. Without another word, Richie tossed off the seatbelt and climbed out of the car; backpack over his shoulder and pie held carefully in his arms.

Richie also knew that he shouldn’t give Connor the satisfaction of a response, but all that fear and anxiety he was feeling for his appointment that afternoon had the vitriol barely simmering below the surface, pouring out of him.

“Fuck you, Connor.”

With that, Richie slammed the door and stalked off in the direction of Joe’s Pie Diner. It wasn’t far from where Connor had pulled over, just a little over a quarter mile. The early spring air was damp and chilly, so Richie was eternally grateful that he could hold the pie close to his chest to keep him warm.

By an act of God (or perhaps Satan himself) Richie made it to work on time. He clocked in on the ancient machine mounted on the wall in the kitchen, pie balanced in one arm.

“Hey, Rich,” Mike Hanlon, that morning’s line cook, said, smiling all too brightly for six in the morning. “What’s the special pie of the day?”

“Life’s the Tits Peach Pie,” he said, stuffing his timecard into his slot.

“Beep-beep, Richie. You know Mr. Maturin won’t let me put that on the sign.”

“What? Oh, shit. I meant Life’s the Pits. Sorry, Mikey.”

Mike rolled his eyes good naturedly, writing the name of the pie on the chalkboard that belonged on the counter. “Don’t call me that.”

“But Bill—” Richie started just as the man in question swept through the kitchen, rushing to get to the clock-in station.

“You were almost late,” Mike said as the machine _clunk_ -ed and stamped out the time. He crossed his arms over his chest, sculpted biceps looking fucking delectable even under the fluorescents, it wasn’t fucking fair.

“A-almost being the oper-r-rtive word.” Bill Denbrough smiled impishly, moving to take his coat off. “H-h-hey Richie, what w-were you saying about me?”

“Nothing,” Richie shrugged, putting the pie on the counter. “Where’s Bev?”

“I’m marrying the ketchups, ya lazy lumps!” Beverly Marsh called from the front of the diner. “Get out here and help me!”

Bill followed Richie out of the kitchen, the two of them finding Bev, her red hair pinned out of her face, filling up the red bottles that lived on each table from the industrial-sized pump of ketchup they kept behind the counter.

Richie, Bill, and Mike had all attended Derry High at the same time, though Bill and Mike were a year ahead of him. The three of them hadn’t become friends until they all started working at Joe’s. Bev, on the other hand, was five years younger than Richie, and it wasn’t until Bev moved back to Derry last year and started working the morning shift with him and Bill that they met. But now that he had Beverly Marsh in his life, Richie couldn’t imagine it any other way.

“Good morning, Molly Ringwald.”

“Morning, Old Man,” Bev grinned up at him, twisting the cap on to a bottle of ketchup.

“Ugh,” Richie took one of the empty bottles and screwed off the cap. “Don’t remind me.”

Over the weekend, Richie had turned 30; a day he had been dreading for over a decade now. His mother, Maggie Tozier, had died of breast cancer when she was only 45. At 18, Richie tested positive for the BRCA2 gene that his mother had, putting him at a higher risk of contracting a multitude of different cancers.

Now that he was ten years younger than his mother was when she was diagnosed, Richie was on high fucking alert.

(it was already awful enough that his mother had died, but now he had to put all that trauma aside just to make sure he didn’t face the same fate)

“You have a doctor’s appointment today, right?” Bev asked.

“Yeah, at 3.” Richie didn’t look up at his friends, knowing that they would be giving him sympathetic looks.

“It’ll be fine, Rich,” Mike said through the serving window. “It’s preemptive screening.”

“I know, I know. It’s just,” Richie paused to think, sliding the now filled bottle of ketchup across the counter to join its friends. “I don’t fuckin’ know, I just have a weird feeling about it.”

***

The breakfast rush started as soon as they opened, the diner smelling like coffee and real maple syrup and pie. Richie’s section was full of his regulars, for which he was extremely thankful. It made it easier to get into the flow of the workday if everything followed the routine.

At 9:00 AM on the dot, Mr. Maturin, the owner of Joe’s Pie Diner, walked in the door, the bell tinkling above his head as the door swung into the restaurant and back into place. He took his usual table near the back of the restaurant, the _Derry Daily_ tucked under his arm.

Richie dropped off a plate of biscuits and gravy to table 8 before making his way to Joe. “Hey, Joe.”

“Hello, Richard,” Joe insisted on calling everyone by their full names; he didn’t believe in nicknames.

“How are you this morning, Boss?”

“Fine, fine. My acid reflux was acting up again last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need some time to check the menu?”

“Nah, if I’m going to be uncomfortable, I might as well eat some pie.”

“That’s the sprit!” Richie cheered, pulling his notebook and pen from his pocket. “What can I get for ya?”

“I want two eggs, scrambled, and white toast. No butter on the toast, but I will take strawberry jam if we have any.” Richie nodded along, not bothering to actually take down Joe’s order. He got the same thing every morning and there was a good chance that Mike would be done with the meal by the time that Richie could place the damn order. But if it gave Joe peace of mind, Richie was willing to lie about it.

“And coffee, but don’t bring it out right away; I want it with the meal, I want water while I wait. I also want a slice of tomato, but I want it on a separate plate.”

“Great,” Richie put the finishing touches on his doodle of a raccoon playing the trumpet. “And pie?”

“What’s the special today?”

“Life’s the Pits Peach Pie, it’s made with bourbon and fresh peaches from the farmer’s market.”

“Then I’d like a slice of that before my food comes out, but not with the coffee.”

“Alright, I’ll get that out to you shortly,” Richie said, smiling down at Joe before tucking his notepad away. He cut a slice of pie for Joe, serving it on to a small plate before returning to his table, pie in one hand, glass of water in the other.

“Thank you, Richard,” Joe said, not bothering to glace up from his crossword when Richie placed his pie down.

The bell over door rang as someone came into the Diner. Richie looked up to greet them, the sound dying on his tongue when he saw who was standing there.

“Hi Rich,” Connor said. “Can I get a table?”

Richie glanced over his shoulder, finding Bev’s gaze from across the diner. It wasn’t a very well-kept secret that his friends disliked Connor, but Bev was the most sympathetic of the bunch; she was no stranger to shitty boyfriends. After a moment, Bev nodded her head to an empty booth in her section before turning to grab an order out of the window.

“Yeah, come on,” Richie said, turning back to Connor and leading him to the table. Richie stood while Connor slipped into the booth, picking up a menu and looking through it casually. “Why aren’t you at work?” he asked.

“I’m taking an early lunch,” he responded blithely.

“Right, of course.”

Connor looked up; green eyes hardened. “Are you really still mad at me?” he asked, voice low. He glanced over at the table next to them suspiciously. 

“Yeah, Connor, I’m still mad.”

“C’mon, Rich,” he said without any follow up. Like that was some kind of apology.

“Whatever, Bev will take your order—”

“Can we talk about this?” Connor cut him off.

Richie sighed. On one hand, he did not want to talk about it, wanted to get back to work and go back to dutifully not thinking about his doctor’s appointment that afternoon. On the other hand, after his appointment was over, he would have to go home and sleep in the same bed as a Connor Bowers that had the whole day to stew in his anger.

“Fine,” Richie sat down heavily in the seat across from Connor. “Talk.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, dude.”

He always turned into such a bro when they were in public, like he thought that would really deter people from thinking that they were more than just roommates.

“Why?”

“Why what?” he asked, fair brows furrowed.

“Why are you sorry?”

“ _What_?”

“Just saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean anything if you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.” Richie crossed his arms over the table. “So, what are you sorry for?”

“Fuck off, Richie.”

“Fine,” he moved to stand, passing by Connor on his way to the kitchen. Before he could get far, his boyfriend caught his arm; giving Richie pause. Connor never touched him in public, even the casual pat on the back or the discreet press of ankles and knees together under the table at a restaurant.

(That was probably because they didn’t go out to restaurants)

“I’m sorry for not listening to you.” Connor dropped Richie’s arm, calloused fingers dragging down his forearm. “I’ll try to be better.” Richie just nodded, tucking his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “You just talk so damn much,” Connor said with a grin. It was a joking expression with a mean edge to his green eyes.

Richie laughed humorlessly; the air stuck in his lungs huffing out of him in one breath. “Yeah, you’re right. Can’t expect you to listen to everything that comes out of my mouth.”

“That’s why they call you Trashmouth, huh?” Connor laughed; the chuckle tinged with bitterness. After a moment, he said, “so, we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Richie said against his better judgement. “We’re good.”

“Good, because the car insurance bill is due today...” he trailed off, expression kept carefully guarded.

Richie wished then that he was a stronger man—a stronger person, really—but he wasn’t. And maybe that’s what Connor wanted; someone to pay half of the car insurance bill he wasn’t even allowed to drive.

As he reached into the pocket of his apron, Richie’s chest felt tight. He ignored the feeling as he pulled out his tips, leaving them on the table in front of Connor. His boyfriend reached for the bills, rifling through them.

“Slow morning,” Richie said before he could ask.

Connor grunted before tucking the money into his pocket. “Right.”

(It was true, for once. Because Connor had surprised him, Richie didn’t have the chance to tuck some of the money away before handing it over)

“Do you want something to eat?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, I want the pancake breakfast. Extra bacon.”

“Great,” Richie smiled wanly, plucking the menu from Connor’s hands. “I’ll let Bev know.”

“C’mon, Rich,” Connor whined entreatingly. “Don’t you want to wait on me?”

Richie knew that Connor just wanted a heavily discounted meal and the excuse not to tip, which he would not get if Bev waited on him. But Connor also knew how to play him like a fiddle, so with a sigh, Richie said, “Fine. It’ll be out in a bit.”

“Thanks man,” he grinned.

Richie slinked away to the kitchen, the tightness in his chest not dissipating until he was behind the closed door of the walk-in. He took a few moments to breathe, the cool air tricking his lungs into expanding.

He wasn’t quite sure how much longer he could live like this, but it wasn’t like he had any better options.

The door to the walk-in creaked open. “Rich,” Mike said, his voice tinged with concern, “you okay?”

Richie took one last heavy breath in before turning around, a fake smile plastered on his face. “Just dandy, Mikey.”

Mike didn’t berate him for the nickname, just sighed and held the door open wider. “Then get back out there, Mr. Maturin’s order is ready.”

“Pip-pip tally-ho!” Richie cheered, voice dipping into an (admittedly bad) English accent. As he passed Mike, his friend squeezed his shoulder comfortingly before shooing him out of the kitchen.

***

After the lunch rush every day, Richie was sentenced to the kitchen to work on the pies. Joe’s carried 15 different types of pie, most of them stacked up like skyscrapers in the freezer to be pulled out to defrost and then bake. They were running low on apple and custard, so Richie put one of each on the counter while he got to work measuring out butter and flour for the pie dough.

When the dough had just come together, Richie wrapped it in saran wrap and stuck it in the fridge to rest. While he waited, he took inventory of the pies in the freezer and made note of which ones were running low. There were only two strawberry rhubarb and one lemon meringue. Richie started to prep the fillings for the pies, slipping into the pie-making zone. This was the other therapeutic aspect of baking that Richie loved so much, it was the only time he felt like he could get out of his head for a little while. Working on autopilot, Richie sliced fruit and rolled out dough and whipped up meringue.

“Hey,” Mike said, sometime later. “It’s almost 2:30.”

Richie’s head snapped up, gaze locking on the clock above the stove. He was surprised to see that Mike was right. Thankfully the pies were just about done, Richie pulling them from the oven and onto a cooling rack.

“The apple and custard pies need to cool a little bit before they can go out,” Richie said, wiping down the counter and brushing the excess flour and sugar off of his hands and into the sink.

“Got it,” Mike said. “What about that one?” he asked pointing at the pie piled high with glossy peaks of swiss meringue topping on the counter in front of Richie.

“Oh, this one is for Patty. Muppet Marshmallow Pie. It’s her favorite.”

Mike grinned, white teeth flashing. “Richie Tozier, secret sap.”

Richie rolled his eyes, sliding the pie into a box. “Not so secret, Mikey.”

“Don’t—”

“Call you that, yeah, yeah,” Richie cut in, Mike’s face splitting into an amused grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“When we do it all again.”

Richie grinned, but he knew the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Bye Mike.”

Mike came over to squeeze Richie’s shoulders. “It’ll be okay, Rich. Stop worrying. We’re here for you no matter what.”

“Thanks Mikey.”

Rather than chide him again, Mike hugged him tightly. Richie could feel tears start to spring to his eyes, and rather than succumb to the mortifying ideal of being known, Richie pulled away, wiping surreptitiously at his nose.

“I gotta go.”

“Bye Rich.”

Richie stripped off his apron and gathered his things, stepping out of the back entrance of the diner and into the watery Maine sunlight.

It was early March, not quite spring, but summer felt just around the corner. Richie missed the summers of his youth, of days spent at the Aladdin, sneaking into R-rated movies, or swimming in the murky water at the quarry to escape the heat. There was a time that Richie, despite being a veritable loser, had felt like the king of Derry. Summers had a way of making him feel invincible.

It was during those years that Richie had learned every side street and shortcut through Derry, to a point that now, 15 years later, he could navigate this town with his eyes closed. He knew the fastest way to get from the diner to the Derry Medical Complex, even though it was all the way across town.

The ground floor of the Derry Medical Complex were the pediatric offices, so when Richie arrived, he went straight up the stairs to Dr. Keene’s office. He paused outside the door for just a moment before shaking the lingering anxieties from his brain and shouldering his way into the waiting room.

Richie had expected to see the smiling face of one Patty Blum-Uris at the reception desk, but he was horrified to find a scowling Gretta Keene instead. He considered for a moment just turning around and taking the missed appointment fee rather than deal with Gretta—

“Tozier, you’re late.”

Richie glanced up at the clock which read 2:57. “Uh—”

“I’ll let Dr. K know you’re here,” Gretta cut in, pushing back her chair and disappearing through the door behind the desk.

Richie was too confused to sit down. Was his appointment actually at 2:45? Where was Patty? And why the hell was Gretta calling her father _Dr. K_?

“Come on,” Gretta said, sticking her head out of the door and ushering him inside. Richie had no choice but to follow.

“I thought Patty was working today,” he said as he caught up to Gretta. They made a quick pit stop at the digital scale to check his weight and height.

“She’s home sick,” Gretta sniped, sliding open the exam room door and striding in without bothering to let Richie go in first. “Up on the table, I need to take your vital signs.”

Richie acquiesced, setting the pie down next to him carefully and offering out his arm for Gretta to wrap a blood pressure cuff around. She didn’t bother with small talk as the cuff tightened and then slowly relaxed.

“You have unusually low blood pressure for a man of your age and size,” she said, jotting a number down.

“Uh, thank you?”

“Not a compliment, breathe in.” Gretta had pressed the cold bell of her stethoscope against Richie’s chest without warning. In response, Richie sucked in a quick breath. “Slowly,” she said, rolling her eyes.

After a few more checks, Gretta left him with a curt, “Dr. K will see you soon,” the door sliding shut behind her. With a sigh, Richie pulled out his phone to send a quick text to Patty.

_heard from nurse ratched that u r home sick today. what am i supposed to do with this muppet marshmallow Pie?_

A few moments later Patty’s reply came through

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_G-d I wish I could eat that pie, but just the thought of it makes me wanna vom_

Richie’s breath caught in his throat, hands shaking as he typed out a series of replies.

_PATRICIA_   
_PATTY_   
_PATTY BLUM URIS_   
_OH MY GOD_

Patty’s replies came swiftly and with a vengeance.

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_Oh_

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_No_

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_I’m not pregnant_

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_I just have food poisoning_

_ARE YOU SURE?_

Richie quickly took his phone off of caps lock before typing out his next message.

_I mean, it would make me so unbelievably happy......._

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_I’m sure, Rich._

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_But if it does happen, I promise you will be one of the first to know_

_“if”!!!!_   
_patty, u wound me!!!!!_

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**   
_All in due time, Richie Tozier. All in due time._

Before Richie could respond, there was a curt knock on the door and Richie tossed the phone away. “Come in,” he replied, expecting Dr. Keene to stroll in, old wireframes slipping down the bridge of his greasy nose.

To Richie’s surprise, it was not Dr. Keene at the door but a young, petit man with big brown doe-eyes and a trim waist.

“Hello, Mr. Tozier.”

“Oh,” Richie said, too dumfounded to be embarrassed by his tone. “Gretta already did my vitals.”

The man looked at Richie quizzically. “Yes, I know.”

“So why are you here?”

“I’m your doctor? Dr. Kaspbrak?” he said, like it was a question. After a moment, Dr. Kaspbrak extended out hand for Richie to shake.

Richie stared at the hand (well-manicured and slightly freckled, a gold band on the fourth finger) before looking back up at Dr. Kaspbrak’s face.

“Uh, what? Dr. Keene is my doctor.”

Dr. Kaspbrak dropped his arm. “Yes, well I just joined Dr. Keene’s practice as a junior physician a few weeks ago. I’m from New York, but I’m in Derry while my wife—You don’t care,” Dr. Kaspbrak said, cutting himself off. He looked down at Richie’s chart for a moment.

“So you’re just my doctor now?”

“No, it was an opt-in program, you really didn’t know?”

“Uh, no. I did not know.”

“Well,” Dr. Kaspbrak started, tucking Richie’s file under one arm. “Dr. Keene is pretty booked up today, so we can either do your physical and make sure you get added back into his patient list or we can cancel today’s appointment—at no cost to you, of course. What kind of doctor would I be if I let you pay for our mistake—and reschedule for a later time.”

Dr. Kaspbrak spoke at a speed and fervor Richie had only ever heard from Chipmunks (as in _Alvin and the_ ).

(That is to say, Richie was both deeply enamored and endeared by this man)

“Mr. Tozier?”

“Does doctor-patient confidentiality start the moment you walk in the room?”

“Uh,” Dr. Kaspbrak paused. “Yes?”

“Cool, because I think Dr. Keene is a creepy son of a bitch and the only reason, I see him is because Dr. Phillips downstairs stopped letting me make appointments with her when I turned 21.”

Dr. Kaspbrak, at Richie’s confession, cracked a smile that was quickly smothered by a carefully contained expression. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, so I totally don’t mind the old bait ‘n switch.”

“Great, glad we could get that settled then.” Dr. Kaspbrak looked back down at Richie’s file. “So, you’re here for a physical?”

“Yes,” Richie shifted uncomfortably. “And, uh. Well, my mom died when she was 45 of breast cancer—”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Richie said. He was never quite sure the proper way to respond to someone’s condolences, even after all these years. “Anywho,” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know if it’s in my file, but I tested positive for the BRCA2 gene when I was 18 and I just turned 30—”

“And you want to start early screening,” Dr. K supplied.

“Yes. Exactly”

“Well, there is a limit as to what I can do, both in this office and with my training. But I’d be happy to set you up with a few referrals to see some specialists—”

“Here’s the thing.” Dr. Kaspbrak met Richie’s gaze. “I don’t have a car. Or very good health insurance, so a whole slew of doctor’s appointments all over the state when I have a pre-existing condition...” Richie trailed off.

“Oh. Of course. How about this: I do the tests that I can here, and if there are any worrisome findings, we can talk about next steps?”

“Sounds perfect, Doc.”

Dr. K almost cracked another smile, wrestling the quirk of lips into submission. He opened up Richie’s chart for the millionth time, scanning the page. “Well, there is some information missing from your chart. Which is unsurprising even though I’ve only known Dr. Kee—" Eddie stopped himself and cleared his throat. After a moment he said, “I just have a few quick questions before we get started.”

“Let me have it.”

“Do you drink?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“A moderate amount?” Richie responded truthfully. “Three or four drinks a week?”

Dr. K hummed and nodded, jotting down notes into Richie’s chart. “Nicotine?”

“No, not anymore. I quit smoking about 4 years ago.”

“Congratulations,” Dr. K. looked up for a moment and smiled.

“Recreational drugs?”

“Weed, occasionally. Edibles mostly.”

Dr. K hummed. “And how many sexual partners have you had in the last year?”

Richie swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Uh, one.”

“And your past sexual partners,” Dr. K started, “are they men, women, or both?”

Richie froze, eyes bugging out of his head. Dr. K looked up, wholly composed, like he hadn’t just shocked _Richard Wentworth Tozier_ into silence.

“Mr. Tozier?”

“Uh,” was all Riche could say.

“You don’t have to tell me, but we do have doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?” Dr. K prodded gently. “I would never use your answer against you, Mr. Tozier.”

After a long (tortuously long, cities could have rose and fell in the time it took for Richie to respond) moment, he said, “men,” voice tight in his throat.

The room was quiet enough for Richie to hear loud and clear the scratch of Dr. Kaspbrak’s pen on the page. “Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Tozier.”

Richie coughed out a laugh. “Please stop calling me that,” he finally looked up to see Dr. K’s doe-eyes ever wider and more solemn than before.

“And what would you prefer?”

There was a dick joke in there somewhere, but Richie had just come out to his young, hot ( _straight_ ) doctor and he was _tired_. “Richie is good.”

“Okay,” Dr. K said reproachfully. “Richie.”

“Yes, Dr. K?” Richie grinned widely.

Dr. Kaspbrak’s dark brows drew together in a frown. Richie only grinned wider. With a sigh, Dr. K said, “Let’s get on with your physical, shall we?”

“Uh, do you mind,” Richie gestured toward the pie box on the table next him and then to the counter on the other side of the room.

“Oh,” Dr. K looked down at the box. “What’s that?”

“A Muppet Marshmallow pie,” Richie responded automatically, ears burning in embarrassment.

“Muppet Marshmallow pie.” Dr. K said very carefully, testing the words in his mouth. After a moment he took the pie box from Richie’s side and placed it on the counter out of the way of the exam table. “And why did you bring Dr. Keene—who you just called a _creepy son of a bitch_ five minutes ago—a Muppet Marshmallow Pie?”

Richie coughed out a laugh. “I brought it for Patty.” After a beat of silence from Dr. K, Richie added, “Blum-Uris? Your PA?”

“She’s home sick today.”

“Yeah, Nurse Ratched told me that when I walked in.”

That comment surprised a laugh out of Dr. K which he tried to disguise as a cough. “Lay down.”

“Anyways,” Richie said, stretching out as best as he could on the exam table. “It’s her favorite.”

When Dr. K. turned back around, he was wearing a pair of blue nitrile gloves. “Muppet Marshmallow pie?” Dr. K asked, adding after a moment, “let me know if anything is sore or tender,” before prodding at Richie’s abdomen.

“Uh, yeah,” Richie responded, embarrassed yet again.

“Sit up,” Dr. K says, moving back to give Richie room to settle back into a seated position before reaching out to feel along the lymph nodes in his neck. Dr. K’s hands were warm under the gloves, fingers deft and strong, curling round his ears and under his jaw.

Richie regretted every single choice he had ever made in his life to bring him to this point where the Good Doctor’s fingers were brushing through the tangle of curls at the nape of his neck.

“I used to have a big crush on Jim Henson,” Richie said, apropos of absolutely nothing. “That headband just exudeded sex appeal.”

Dr. Kaspbrak chuckled lightly, pulling away from Richie to make a note on his chart and pull something out of the pocket of his white coat. “Say ah,” he said tipping Richie’s head back, his jaw falling open.

“You can close your mouth,” Dr. K said after a few seconds. “I’m going to check your pupils; will you take your glasses off for me?” Richie slid the thick frames off of his face, folding the arms and carefully setting them down on his lap. Dr. K quickly checked his eyes before stepping back. “You can put them back on. What’s your prescription?”

“Uh, negative three-point-five in my right and plus three in my left,” Richie said, pushing his glasses up his nose. Dr. Kaspbrak moved to his left side to check inside his ears.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, you shoulda seen the glasses I wore as a kid. I’m kinda glad the hipsters made glasses cool again, otherwise I’d be a real social pariah.”

Dr. K didn’t laugh. “Do you use q-tips?”

“Uh.” Richie paused. “Yes?”

“Do you know how dangerous those are?” Dr. K asked, stepping back to look at Richie scornfully. “You could scratch or irritate the ear canal, which doesn’t sound like a big deal but if that cut got an infection it could damage your hearing for good. And that’s if you don’t puncture a hole through your eardrum. If your body wasn’t meant to have earwax, it wouldn’t produce it—”

“Then how do you explain the appendix?” Richie quipped, cutting him off.

“How do you-I- _what_?” Dr. K sputtered.

“Or wisdom teeth? _Tonsils_?”

Dr. K blinked at him in disbelief. “You need tonsils, you can just live without them.”

“I think we have radically different definitions of the word _need_ , Doc.”

“I went to medical school for eight years, I think I understand the lymphatic system better than you,” Dr. K snapped. After a moment he straightened up, a panicked expression crossing his face. “Uh, I mean. I’m sor—”

“Don’t apologize,” Richie managed out through the laughter threatening to bubble out of him. “Seriously, Dr. K, I don’t mind. You’re right, I don’t know jack shit about the Lyndon B. Johnson system.”

“Lyndon B. John—” Dr. Kaspbrak started, rearing back up for another rant before he caught Richie’s barely contained gleeful expression. “Oh. Ha. You were making a joke.”

“You’re looking at the Derry High’s Class of 2008 Class Clown,” Richie grinned.

Richie was pretty sure that Dr. K rolled his eyes as he made a note on Richie’s chart. “You grew up here?” he asked.

“Born and raised. In lieu of flowers, contributions can be made to the Derry Hospice.”

Dr. K breathed out a laugh, walking around to Richie’s other side to look in his left ear. “You really should stop using q-tips in your ears.”

“Okay, okay, Dr. K. Ha! That rhymed.”

“I commend your poetic prowess,” Dr. K said, tucking away his pen light into the pocket of his lab coat. “Okay, I need to do a prostate, breast, and skin exam. What order do you want to do them in?”

Richie glanced down at his lap, picking at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt, thinking it over. “Let’s do the breast exam first.”

Dr. K nodded, closing his file and tucking it under one arm. He crossed the room and pulled a light blue mass from one of the cupboards. “I’ll let you get changed,” he handed over the hospital gown. Without another word, Dr. K slipped out of the room.

“Well, fuck.”

***

Dr. K left the room again after the examinations were over to let Richie change back into his uniform. He was quite proud of himself for only sporting a half-chub during his prostate exam. Dr. K assured him that there was nothing of concern before leaving the room to let him change back into his street clothes.

After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Richie finished buttoning his pants and sat back down on the exam table. “Come in.”

Dr. K smiled as he walked back into the room, dimples flashing for a single, glorious moment, settling down on a padded stool and rolling over towards Richie and opening his file. “So, I’m going to order a few blood tests, you’ll have to come back in a few days to do them.”

“Alright.” After a beat, Richie added, “thank you, Dr. K.”

He looked up, wide brown eyes locking on Richie. “Why are you thanking me?”

“For being so… cool about all of this. I was really nervous, not just for the tests themselves, but like dealing with Dr. Keene—” Richie cut himself off from any further rambling. “So, yeah. Thanks.”

“Well, you’re very welcome, Richie,” Dr. K said, surprise evident in his voice and expression.

When Richie had changed back into his clothes, he brought the Muppet Marshmallow pie back to the exam table. “I’m gonna give you this pie,” Richie said at last, holding the box out toward Dr. K.

“Oh.” Dr. K closed Richie’s file. “Thank you, it looks delicious, but I’m, uh, off sugar. It actually causes leptin resistance, chromium deficiency, and rapid spikes in insulin. In fact, there have been some studies done that show a correlation between high rates of insulin and the growth of cancer cells. There are lots of foods, actually, that we consume on a daily basis that some scientists believe can cause cancer. Grapes, diet soda, coffee—” Dr. K looked posed to continue on with his carcinogen crusade, but he stopped himself.

Richie felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “My mom used to say that you can live to be 100 if you give up all the things that make you _want_ to live to be 100.”

Dr. K breathed out a laugh. “You’d be surprised; the longer you’re off sugar, the less you crave it. I haven’t had a piece of pie in five years…” he trailed off, almost sounding reminiscent, his gaze glued to the pie box, hunger in his eyes.

Richie stood, closing the distance between himself and Dr. Kaspbrak, still holding the box out toward him. “Take the pie, Dr. K. Life’s already hard enough.”

Dr. K reached out, the fingers of his left hand brushing against Richie’s right as he passed the pie over. “Thank you, Richie.”

Richie gave him a little wave before slipping out of the examination room and making his way to the reception desk.

***

When Richie got home later that evening, Connor was already home, two and a half beers into his nightly routine of lazing about on the couch, plucking at his busted six-string.

“Hey babe,” he said as Richie came in the door, shrugging off his coat.

“Hey,” Richie replied. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, I had the last of the pizza.”

(Richie had been thinking about that pizza all fucking day)

“Cool,” he deadpanned.

“How was your appointment?” Connor asked as Richie made his way for the kitchen.

“It was fine. I have to go back for blood work in a few days.”

Connor hummed, playing an oddly familiar riff. Richie thought it might be one of his old songs, but as Connor went on, Richie realized it was just the bass solo from “The Chain”. He rolled his eyes and pulled out the fixings for a pb&j sandwich.

Richie ate his sandwich in front of the fridge, looking for inspiration for the special pie for tomorrow, but his mind kept drifting back to dark hair and wide brown eyes—

“Babe, will you bring me a beer?” Connor asked from the couch, his old, scuffed-up guitar tossed to the wayside, claiming the other half of the couch.

“Sure.” Richie grabbed a can of PBR from the fridge and slunk off toward the living room.

***

Richie could hear Bill and Bev arguing from the diner floor when he arrived the next morning. Mike gave him an exasperated look when he passed, rolling his eyes and taking the pie from Richie’s hands.

“What’s going on?” Richie asked, shucking off his coat and grabbing his apron.

“Who knows,” Mike responded, carefully inspecting the pie. “What’s this?”

“Kick in the Pants Pie.” Richie tied the apron around his waist, extracting the name tag from his pocket and pinning it in place. “it’s a spiced cinnamon custard.”

Mike’s expression turned earnest all at once. “Did your appointment yesterday go okay?”

“Yeah,” Richie tried to sound reassuring. “My do—”

“Just leave it alone Bill!” Bev exclaimed, cutting Richie off.

“I’m j-just trying to help-p-p you, Bev,” Bill shot back. Mike and Richie exchanged looks before Richie shouldered his way through the door to find Bev and Bill having a heated standoff across the counter. Bill was frowning, hand gripping an empty mustard bottle. Bev looked calm on the surface, but Richie could tell that her anger was barely simmering beneath the surface.

“Richie agrees w-with me!” Bill said when Richie appeared.

“Uh…” Richie said when Bev turned to him, fire in her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bill thinks that I need to get laid.”

Bill’s face morphed from consternation to surprise. “I d-d-d-did not s-s-say that—”

Bev rolled her eyes, huffing out a breath to blow her bangs out of her eyes. “You said that I should take up the opportunity to _let off some steam_.”

“I m-m-meant,” Bill dropped the mustard bottle and released the tension in his shoulders, “that you sh-should have a nice night-t-t out with a n-nice g-guy. That’s _all_.”

Bev softened in kind. “I don’t know if I’m ready, Bill.”

“How will you know if you never try?” Richie asked, sidling up to Bev at the counter. She leaned into his side slightly.

Bev had grown up in Derry, just like Richie and Bill and Mike had, but she was a few years younger than them. They hadn’t even attended Derry High at the same time. She had moved out of Derry for a while after she graduated, but she came back after finally leaving her piece of shit boyfriend, Tom, when her father died. Bev needed a job to get back onto her feet, and Joe’s had been hiring.

(Despite the circumstances that had brought her into his life, Richie couldn’t imagine _not_ having Bev as a friend. He felt the same about Bill and Mike, too, but he and Bev had a unique connection)

“What if I get hurt?”

“That’s just the chance you have to take, Bev.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, straightening up and pulling the tray of half-empty ketchup bottles towards her. “Dating is bullshit.”

“Th-then why did you sign up for a d-dating app?” Bill asked.

“Bite me, Denbrough,” Bev shot back. Bill and Richie laughed, Bev rolling her eyes. She was quiet for a few moments. “What if he doesn’t like me in real life?”

“Bev,” Richie sighed. “Why wouldn’t he like you?”

“Because I have a metric ton of baggage,” she said dismissively, but it wasn’t quite as convincing as she meant it to be.

“It’s _one_ date, Bev. You don’t have to marry the guy, and you definitely don’t have to tell him about all your shit,” Richie said, squeezing her hand.

The tension drained from Bev’s shoulders. “Fine. I’ll text him.”

“Proud of you.” Richie dropped a kiss to the top of Bev’s head.

“Okay, I’m breaking up this love fest,” Mike said, leaning out of the order window. “Get back to work.”

Richie gave Mike a sarcastic little salute before turning around to fiddle with the ancient coffee machine.

***

The morning was mostly uneventful, a steady stream of regulars coming in for breakfast, terrible coffee, and pie. Mr. Maturin Took his usual table and made his usual order, his attention turning to his copy of the Derry Daily before Richie could tuck his order pad back into his apron.

Richie slid a slice of Kick in the Pants Pie on to a plate and brought it over to Mr. Maturin’s table, planning on dropping the pie off and checking on a booth in his section, but his boss said, “Richard, what’s your zodiac sign?” eyes still trained on the newspaper in his hands.

“Uh, Pisces,” Richie responded, sliding the plate in front of Mr. Maturin.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling up at Richie for a moment before clearing his throat. “ _Pisces, February 20 th-March 20th. Now is a good time to review your long-term career plan. A big change is coming up for you, so be prepared to make adjustments. There is no sense staying on the current track if you feel yourself being pulled in another direction. Follow your heart_.” Mr. Maturin peered up at Richie through his bifocals, eyes narrowing. “You plannin’ on quitting, Richard?”

Richie laughed, “no, Mr. Maturin. And if I was, you’d be the first to know. I don’t believe in that kind of stuff anyways.”

Mr. Maturin hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, if I was you, I wouldn’t totally rule it out. Change is good, natural even.”

(Richie felt unsettled under Mr. Maturin’s intense gaze. He searched for some kind of joke)

“I can’t quit, the only thing I’m good at is making pies.”

One of Mr. Maturin’s bushy white brows rose in question. “Who said anything about not making pies?” After a moment, Mr. Maturin folded the newspaper up. “Will you put this in the recycling for me, Richard? I already did the crossword this morning.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Richie took the paper. Before he could tuck it under his arm, a bright, full-color ad caught his eye.

**_The Oxford County Fair_ **   
**_September 12-15, 2020_ **   
**_Centennial Celebration_ **   
_Join us for rides, games, local food, wares, and more!_   
_And for all you amateur bakers, this year’s prize for the pie contest,_   
_in celebration of the Oxford County Fair’s 100 th year, is **$20,000 CASH!** _   
_Enter today, spots are limited!_

Richie paused, still hovering near Mr. Maturin’s table, reading the ad for a second and third time. Twenty thousand dollars cash. That kind of money could—

“Is something the matter, Richard?” Mr. Maturin asked. Richie looked up to see his boss smiling at him conspiratorially.

Richie felt a (stupid, hopeful) smile tug at his mouth, “no, Mr. Maturin.” There was a _ding_ of a bell, Mike calling _order up!_ through the order window behind him. “Nothing at all.”

***

Connor, thankfully, did not come into the diner during Richie’s shift. After Bev, Bill, and Mike clocked out, Richie retired to the kitchen, preparing Wednesday’s special pie. He had been thinking about the pie all throughout his shift, wondering what kind of pie Richie would make if $20,000 were on the line.

The most literal choice was a take on millionaire’s shortbread. There was an even layer of sweet, buttery pastry on the bottom followed by a thick layer of bourbon-vanilla caramel custard and topped with a luscious chocolate ganache. Before sticking the pie in the walk-in to set up overnight, Richie sprinkled on a few pinches of flaky sea salt for texture and flavor.

“What’s that?” Vicky Fuller, one of the afternoon waitresses and a senior at Derry High, asked as Richie passed by her on the way to the walk-in. She was a petite thing, all wide eyes and corn silk hair, Richie barely noticed the red birthmark covering her cheek anymore.

“Bernie Made-Off with Millions Shortbread Pie,” Richie replied.

“Huh?” she asked, fair brows drawing together in confusion.

“Bernie Madoff?” Richie asked, Vicky just shook her head. “He’s just some wall-street scum.”

“Sounds boring.”

Richie laughed, sticking the pie in the fridge. “I took an apple and a strawberry rhubarb from the freezer to defrost, you guys are running low out there.”

“Gee thanks, Mr. Tozier,” Vicky grinned sardonically.

“No need to thank me, and don’t call me Shirley!”

Vicky rolled her eyes. “No one gets your old-people references.”

Richie scoffed, untying his apron and tucking his nametag into the pocket. “I am _not_ old.”

“Didn’t you just turn 30? That’s old.”

“How do you know that?”

“I tried to steal your identity,” Vicky deadpanned. Her expression didn’t falter until Richie cracked a grin. “Nah, Mr. Maturin mentioned it last week. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks, kid. Now get back out there, those orders won’t take themselves.”

“You don’t know that,” she quipped, but she slipped out the kitchen door regardless.

Richie packed up his things, taking the last slice of Kick in the Pants Pie in a to-go container and tugging on his jacket. He walked out into the chilly afternoon and down a block to the bus stop. It would be another ten minutes before his bus would arrive, so Richie tried to get comfortable on the cold concrete bench.

“Richie?” someone asked, jerking his attention away from watching a squirrel rifle through a trashcan across the street. He turned around to see Dr. Kaspbrak, dressed in a pair of medium wash jeans and a non-descript charcoal gray jacket.

“Dr. K!” Richie grinned, Dr. K returning the expression with a small smile.

“I thought that was you. What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Uh,” Richie’s mouth twitched with another smile. “Catching the bus?” He jerked his head toward the sign next to him. Dr. K followed the movement, a flush of pink spreading across his cheeks.

“Right. You said you didn’t have a car. Do you catch the bus every day?”

“Nah, but my uh,” Richie remembered how cool Dr. K was about the whole gay thing yesterday. “boyfriend,” his mouth stuttered around the word, but Dr. Kaspbrak (thankfully) didn’t comment on it. “Usually drives me to and from work. But he has band practice on Tuesdays, so he stays out late with his friends.”

Richie looked up to meet Eddie’s wide-eyed, wholly unreadable gaze. “That’s nice. For him.”

“Yeah, I love Tuesdays.” Dr. K breathed out a laugh and Richie asked, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was just picking up some dinner.” He lifted up a paper bag emblazoned with the Oh, Kale Yeah! logo. Richie assumed it was a caricature of a kale leaf, not that Richie had ever seen kale in real life before. Oh, Kale Yeah! was a trendy little vegetarian restaurant that many of Richie’s regulars liked to complain about when they ordered stacks of bacon and breakfast sausages. 

“Date night with the wife?” Richie asked.

“No,” Eddie cleared his throat, shifting the bag of food from one arm to another. “She’s got plans tonight. I was just going to eat this,” he peered inside the bag, “seitan slovaki and watch re-runs of SVU.”

“So we both have exciting evenings ahead,” Richie joked. For a split second, Richie saw a flash of Dr. K’s genuine smile; making Richie’s heart contract painfully in his chest. He looked down and away from Dr. K’s dimples ( _cute, cute, cute_ ) to check his watch. Six more minutes.

“So, you’re a waiter?” Dr. K asked.

Richie looked up and then back down at his uniform. “How’d you guess?”

“There’s a deductive reasoning section on the MCAT.”

Richie snorted. “Well you’ve found me out. Here, sit,” Richie picked up his pie off the bench next to him to make room for Dr. K. After a moment of contemplation, Dr. Kaspbrak settled next to him. “I work at Joe’s Pie Diner,” Richie gestured towards the diner. Dr. K glanced back at the diner before his gaze slid back over to Richie. “We serve 15 different varieties of pie.”

“Sounds like a veritable pie factory over there.”

“ _Au contraire mon Capitan_ ,” Richie grinned. “I make all the pies by hand. Breakfast pies, lunch pies. And a special new pie that I invent every day.”

Dr. K’s brows lifted in surprise. “Did you make the marshmallow pie you gave me?”

“Yeah, I invented it with my mom when I was like nine years old.”

“During your Jim Henson phase?” Dr. K asked.

Richie felt himself flush; he forgot he had revealed that yesterday. “What can I say? My taste in men is broad and ultimately baffling.”

Richie felt, more than heard, Dr. Kaspbrak laughing next to him. “You know,” he put his take-out on the bench next to him. “That was probably the best pie I’ve ever had.”

That surprised Richie. “You tried it?” He couldn’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I won’t tell your doctor.”

Dr. K rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Seriously. It was _biblically_ good.”

(Biblically?)

“Like, astonishingly good” Dr. K continued. “That pie could win contests, and ribbons, and-and things,” he finished lamely, though not without sincerity.

Richie glanced at him sidelong, the earnestness in his brown eyes making his heart squeeze in his chest again and (embarrassingly) tears spring to his eyes. “Oh, well...” Richie turned away, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes under his glasses.

“I’m so sorry,” Richie looked back over, Dr. K’s doe eyes looking wider than ever. “That was a compliment.”

Richie laughed, a stuttering, embarrassed sound. “I know, I’m just not good at taking compliments.”

“I shouldn’t have said—”

“It’s fine, Dr. K, really.” Richie looked up to see his bus ambling up the street. It stopped at a red light a block down. “That’s my bus.”

“Do you want a ride?” Dr. K asked.

“What?”

“I’m parked just there,” he pointed to a shiny black SUV parked a few dozen feet away.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Dr. K replied. After a moment he blanched, “I just mean,” he sighed. The light turned green and the bus came ever closer. “I wouldn’t mind giving you ride home if you wanted some extra time alone before your boyfriend came home.” Just as the bus was pulling up, he said, “never mind, it’s wei—”

“Sure,” Richie cut in. “I’d like that.”

He waved the bus past.

“Great. Uh,” Dr. K stood, grabbing his dinner in one hand and reaching into his pocket for his keys with another. “Let’s head out.”

Richie followed him to the car, Dr. K beeping it open and letting Richie climb into the passenger seat. “Wow,” Richie said, settling into the plush leather upholstery and buckling his seatbelt. “This is a real nice car for a small-town doctor,” he couldn’t help but slip into a Voice; some sort of southern hick meets wide-eyed youth.

Dr. K looked chagrined. “I like cars.”

That seemed to be the end of Dr. K’s sentence. “Right. Well I live in Derry Flats; you know where that is?” Dr. K nodded and turned away to start the car.

Pulling away from the curb with a casual glance in his review mirror, Dr. K said, “You know, you remind me of a waitress at this little 24-hour diner I used to frequent when I was in med school. Nice teeth and small hands, and she used to sneak me pastries and coffee that I couldn’t afford then. God, she’s probably well into middle age now. Maybe 41 or 42—”

“Thank you?” Richie asked, not quite sure where this little diatribe was going.

“Oh my god,” the car jerked to a stop at a yellow light and the car behind them honked their horn in annoyance. “Can it, dickwad,” Dr. K snapped, head spinning around to look out the back of the window. He seemed to remember himself then, turning back to Richie with a mortified expression. “Richie, I—”

(Richie didn’t think he could find Dr. K any more attractive than he already did but be still his beating heart. Richie wanted _can it, dickwad_ carved onto his tombstone)

“It’s no problem, Dr. K.” He couldn’t help the laughter bubbling out of him. “Though, I still take offense to you comparing me to a middle-aged woman.”

“It really was meant to be a compliment. She would bake the pies fresh every day, just like you. Though, her pies have nothing on yours.” He paused for a moment. “You remind me of her, but better.”

Richie ignored the compliment, defaulting to his usual avoidance tactic. “Sounds like you had a crush.”

“No, no, no,” Dr. K shook his head so violently that Richie worried it would pop right off his neck.

“Don’t worry Dr. K, I won’t tell your wife. Turn right at that stop sign,” Richie directed, pointing out the windshield.

“I _didn’t_ have a crush on her,” Dr. K said, just on the wrong side off _too defensive_. They rolled to a stop at the sign, the clicking of his blinker the only sound hanging between them. “I’m gay,” Dr. K said at last.

(That was almost enough to shock Richie into silence. _Almost_ )

“Does your wife know?”

(Well, _shit_ )

Dr. Kaspbrak breathed out a shaky laugh that grew heartier by the second. He pulled the car over, just two houses down from Richie and Connor’s place. “No, fuck.” He leaned his head into his hands, fingers raking through his dark hair, breaking up the clumps of gel. “She does not.”

“Ah.”

(Richie could relate in some way. They were both closeted, although it was for very different reasons. Nevertheless, being in the closet had a way of settling like a pit in your stomach)

“Yeah. Sorry, uh, is this your house?”

“No, it’s the green one just up there,” Richie pointed out his house. Dr. K nodded and pulled back onto the street, stopping again at Richie’s house.

“It’s, uh, complicated.”

“I get it. I mean, I don’t _get it_ , get it. But like, I _get_ it.”

Dr. K turned towards him, “I don’t know what that means.”

Richie snorted. “Neither do I.”

Eddie turned back to face out the windshield. “I’m waiting for our tenth anniversary.”

“Fun gift.”

Dr. K looked posed to snap back in response until he saw Richie’s shit-eating grin. “After ten years, she’s entitled to my social security benefits. She paid my way through med school, it’s sort of the least I can do now.” Richie didn’t have a response, so he (for once) kept his mouth shut. “I’m gay, not an asshole.”

“It feels good to say, huh?” Richie smirked.

Dr. Kaspbrak relaxed into his seat with a low chuckle. “Yeah, I haven’t said it out loud to anyone else before.”

Richie hoped that he could pluck up enough sincerity to say, “I’m proud of you, Dr. K.”

An unreadable expression crossed his features. After a moment, he said, “Eddie.”

“Huh?”

“My name.” He paused for a moment. “You can call me Eddie.”

“Oh.” The moment felt all too heavy for Richie, so he grasped at something ( _anything_ ) to say. “Dr. Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrak.”

“No,” Eddie said emphatically. “ _Absolutely not_ —”

“I’m very big on nicknames, Eds,” Richie grinned.

“Eddie is _already a nickname_ —”

Richie loved the angry red flush brightening Eddie’s cheeks. “Eds Spagheds.”

“I hate you.”

(That only made Richie grin wider. After a moment Eddie’s hard veneer cracked slightly with a half-smile. One day Richie would earn both of those dimples, so help him god)

“I should go,” Richie said at last.

“Right.” Eddie cleared his throat.

Richie unbuckled his seatbelt, but before he could climb out, he looked down at the box on his lap. “Would you like this piece of pie?”

“What?”

“Kick in the Pants Pie. It’s a spiced cinnamon custard.”

A flash of hunger passed over Eddie’s expression, but he schooled into cool indifference. “That’s very kind, Richie, but no thank you.”

“I’m gonna leave you this pie,” Richie smiled, opening the door and climbing out of his seat. “Bye, Eddie.”

“Bye, Rich.”

With that, Richie closed the door and watched Eddie peel away from the curb, disappearing into the dusk settling over Derry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two should be up in the next week. Hopefully I can get it posted before Friday, but I'm in summer school, so who knows what will happen. 
> 
> Here are the recipes the special pies are based on:  
> [Life's the P(T)its Pie](https://www.gimmesomeoven.com/peach-bourbon-pie/)  
> [Muppet Marshmallow Pie](https://cakescottage.com/2019/05/11/easy-marshmallow-pie/)  
> [Kick in the Pants Pie](https://www.aspicyperspective.com/cinnamon-pie/)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always greatly appreciated ♥️


	2. pretty good bad idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie didn’t remember when he started squirreling away the money in the cornstarch tin, if there was some kind of inciting incident or just a slow build up to this point. He wasn’t even really sure what the money was for. He had dipped into it occasionally, to buy fresh sour cherries to make Mike’s favorite Sour Patch Cherry Pie for his birthday last summer, or to get a new paddle attachment for his ancient stand mixer.
> 
> (It wasn’t enough money to run away, to buy himself a new life. It was just enough to feel like it could change things)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some warnings for this chapter:
> 
> 1\. There is a scene near the end that goes into detail about a blood test. If that is not your jam, you can skim from "Alright, then let’s get this show on the road” to “Where is everyone?” (I would suggest still reading the dialog however!
> 
> 2\. There is a slight breach of medical ethics near the end. That plot point is wrapped up quickly and will not be an issue going forward. 
> 
> 3\. Yes I did change the chapter count. As it turns out, my outline is trash!

The house was dark and quiet as Richie toed off his shoes and hung his jacket up near the door. Connor was at band practice with his grungy garage band he had started in high school with a few of his friends. They were like Nirvana if Kurt Cobain had been markedly worse at songwriting, singing, and playing guitar.

(That was to say, they were terrible)

When they were in high school (even before he and Connor had started hooking up in the boy’s bathroom in the old dilapidated gym at Derry High) they called themselves “Mrs. Beaton’s Sex Manual” after their 9th grade health teacher Mrs. Beaton, who had (mistakenly) assigned a gaggle of hormonal 14-year old boys chapters of _Our Bodies, Ourselves_ as their bi-weekly homework. By the end of the semester, the male population of the class of 2008 had far too much knowledge about female sexuality than Richie ever felt necessary.

(It wasn’t long after that that he and Connor started hooking up during their shared lunch period. Yes, Richie did consider the timing of this and he refused to acknowledge it)

Now, they called themselves “The Smoking Bananas” which Richie did not see as an improvement on “Mrs. Beaton’s Sex Manual” except for the fact that it no longer made fun of a middle-aged high school health teacher who made $40,000 a year.

Connor was a decent musician; he had a pretty good voice and passable guitar skills. His songwriting wasn’t even all that bad, though it had taken a steep drop-off in the last few years. There was a part of Connor, Richie presumed, that thought he would make it big someday. And when fame and fortune hadn’t fallen into his lap, he had just stopped trying.

Now The Smoking Bananas mostly just hung out in Patrick Hockstetter’s (their drummer and Richie’s personal tormentor from Kindergarten to twelfth grade) garage drinking cheap beer and smoking skunky weed. Richie guessed that they occasionally played music, but based on the sheer number of times Richie had found Connor’s guitar sitting on the couch at home while he was at band practice, well...

Richie got a lot of Good Boyfriend Points for “letting” Connor go to band practice every week. He found this phenomenon comical, seeing that Richie wasn’t sure he could really stop Connor from going and he also desperately wanted Connor out of the house as often as possible.

Richie made his way to the kitchen, sticking a frozen burrito on a plate and putting it in the microwave. While his dinner heated up, he took an old cornstarch tin off of his shelf of baking supplies. Inside was a collection of small bills that he had skimmed off the top of his tips when he could.

Connor took most of Richie’s tips for rent or car insurance or groceries or whatever the hell he felt like having Richie paying for. Richie didn’t make as much as Connor did an hour, so it was only “fair” that his tips go to their various expenses.

Richie didn’t remember when he started squirreling away the money in the cornstarch tin, if there was some kind of inciting incident or just a slow build up to this point. He wasn’t even really sure what the money was for. He had dipped into it occasionally, to buy fresh sour cherries to make Mike’s favorite Sour Patch Cherry Pie for his birthday last summer, or to get a new paddle attachment for his ancient stand mixer.

(It wasn’t enough money to run away, to buy himself a new life. It was just enough to _feel_ like it could change things)

But now, with the Oxford County Fair’s pie competition, Richie felt like everything in his his world was about to change. He had filled out the application form on his phone during his break, securing his spot in the competition. Without thinking, Richie had listed the diner as his mailing address in fear of Connor finding out about the contest. Richie wasn’t quite sure how he was going to manage getting away for a whole weekend, let alone forever—

With a sigh, Richie tucked the cornstarch tin behind a bag of sugar and took his dinner from the microwave and collapsed onto the couch next to Connor’s guitar. The burrito was deeply underwhelming, but he was too exhausted to put something more satisfying together. Richie sunk into the cushions of their old plaid couch, his joints groaning in objection.

He wanted to take a hot shower or lay out on the couch and binge a season of some trashy reality TV show or crawl into bed and get more than six hours of sleep for once—

The front door creaked open and slammed shut, Richie jerked upright as Connor appeared in the living room, his face cast in shadow.

“What are you doing home so early?” Richie asked. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Well it looks like I’m gonna be home m’re often,” Connor slurred, he smelled like cheap beer even form a few feet away. “That dickbag William Hanlon said I was late one to many times and he _fired_ me. I told him that he could take this toolbox and shove it up his ass.” He dropped the rusted red toolbox on the floor, the tools inside rattling around. “I don’t even want this fuckin’ job.”

Connor strolled off to the kitchen, still grumbling; more to himself than to Richie. “Then he called me arrogant. Me?” The fridge opened and closed. “Arrogant?” There was a _pop_ and a _hiss_ of a can of PBR opening. “He doesn’t know what he’s fuckin’ talkin’ about.” Richie was frozen on the couch, still staring down at the toolbox on the floor. Connor came back into the living room. “He’s had it out for me ever since I started.”

Richie had gotten Connor the job with Hanlon Construction a few years ago, garnering whatever sympathy he could when his father died. Mr. Hanlon was kind enough to give Connor a full-time position, even over other candidates who probably deserved it more. And now he had just squandered it all away.

Six years, just down the drain. Six years of living in this tiny, piece of shit house. Six years of feeling like he had put all his eggs in one basket at twenty-four (or eighteen or _sixteen_ ) and now Richie had to live with the consequences of his stupid actions—

“Who shat in your cereal?” Connor asked, landing heavily on the couch next to him. “I’m the one who got fired.”

Richie schooled his features into something vaguely sympathetic. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fuckin’ peachy keen, Babe. I hated that job. Fuckin’ soul-crushing.”

(Richie wanted to point out that most people who described their jobs as _soul-crushing_ were telemarketers. Or like former-MLM reps)

Connor picked up his guitar, handing his guitar to Richie. If Richie was feeling charitable (he wasn’t) he would say that there was some sort of melody to Connor’s drunken strumming. “Woo,” Connor cheered. “That kind of awes’me?” he grinned over at Richie, “was wasted on pouring _concrete_? Ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Richie half-heartedly agreed.

Connor’s expression darkened, and he put his guitar off to the side. “Looks like you’re gonna be payin’ the bills round here.” He held his hand, and Richie offered up his beer, but Connor just shook his head. Richie felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, but he turned and rifled through bag on the floor nonetheless. After a few moments, he handed the folded bills over, Connor leafing through them. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“It was a slow day,” Richie lied, standing up to take Connor’s toolbox and his coat to put them away.

“Then you better move faster,” Connor replied, Richie’s back to him.

Richie took the opportunity to take a calming breath before turning around with an approximation of his genuine smile on his face. “Why don’t we look on the bright side?”

“Huh?”

(Richie almost had to laugh. Almost)

He strolled over to where Connor was slouched down on the couch, tipping up his chin to slide his mouth over Connor’s. “C’mon,” Richie tugged Connor to his feet. “You’re home early for once.”

Connor tugged Richie in for another, rougher kiss. “Let’s go to bed,” Connor all but growled, swatting Richie on the ass and following him into the other room.

***

Just as Richie had predicted, Connor passed out not long after they had fallen into bed together. Once he was sure Connor was in a deep enough sleep, Richie got out of bed and showered, washing the feel of Connor’s rough hands off his skin and down the drain and pushing the thought of dark brown eyes and perfectly coifed hair from his mind.

He didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning with anxiety. They could barely make ends meet as it was. Richie could pick up a few extra shifts at the diner, though his back and knees were screaming just at the thought. Maybe it was time to ask Mr. Maturin for a raise. Richie had been putting it off for a long time now, he wasn’t a fan of confrontation.

In the morning, Richie woke up groggy, light just barely streaming in through the window. Next him, Connor huffed in annoyance, rolling over. With a sigh, Richie got out of bed and got ready for the day.

While he was rifling through his dresser for a clean uniform Connor asked, “you need a ride?”

Richie found a shirt at last, pulling it on over his head. “Nah,” he said once he resurfaced. “I can take the bus.”

Connor grinned lazily, “can I get some sugar before you go?”

Richie closed the distance between them, pressing a kiss to Connor’s lips. “You’ll pick me up?”

“Mhm,” he hummed before rolling back over and going to sleep.

It was a chilly Maine morning, Richie tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he made his way to the bus stop. He had timed his departure perfectly, the bus coming into view as he was rounding the corner. It was a short ride across Derry at this time of the morning, just Richie and the old ladies. Richie settled into an empty seat, watching the town slowly wake up.

Bill’s bike and Bev and Mike’s cars were already in the lot when Richie arrived; their voices floating over to him at the back door as he hung up his bag and jacket. Bill was telling a story, Mike and Bev laughing after the punchline. Richie loitered at the door, just listening.

“Are there anymore?” Bev asked.

“I h-hope not,” Bill laughed.

“I found another one!” Mike exclaimed.

“Really? Where?” Bill replied, sounding utterly horrified.

Richie couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth as he wandered through the kitchen to find his friends. They were all bent over Mike’s phone, Bill pressed up against his side and Bev peering around his sizable bicep. “Did you guys find my nudes?” Richie joked, clocking in. 

“Beep-beep,” Bev said, looking up, eyes twinkling. “We found fanfiction for Bill’s book.”

Bill had self-published the horror novel he had been working on since high school some time last year, just after he had started working at Joe’s again. It had been received pretty well by readers and critics alike, sporting a respectable 4.2 star rating on Goodreads.

(The only real criticism, that Richie had found when scouring the reviews late at night when he couldn’t sleep, was that readers didn’t always enjoy Bill’s dour ending. Richie hadn’t actually read _The Attic Room_ yet, so he had no feelings on the subject)

“That’s even better than Dick pics. Get it, because my name is Rich—”

“Beep-beep,” Mike and Bill said this time, in perfect synchronicity.

Richie rolled his eyes good naturedly, “can I see?” he asked, peering at Mike’s phone, the words on-screen upside down. “I’m sorry, is this _smut_?” Richie gasped, eyes catching on _throbbing_ and _engorged_.

“N-n- _no_.” Bill insisted, reaching out to lock Mike’s phone. “Don’t we all h-h-have j-jobs to do?”

“Fine,” Bev sighed, catching Mike’s eye behind Bill’s back, mouthing _text me the link_. Mike laughed and nodded before Bev followed Bill out to the door to the diner floor.

“I heard about Connor,” Mike said as Richie pulled the Burnie Made-Off with Millions pie from the walk-in, the words stopping him in his tracks. “I’m sorry, Rich. If I had known—”

“It’s fine, Mike.”

“Are you guys going to be okay?”

(He sounded so sincere that Richie’s heart stuttered helplessly in his chest)

“We will be if you can get me on the schedule for a few more shifts a week.”

“ _Richie_ —” Mike started.

“Trashmouth!” Bev called through the order window. “What’s the special pie today?”

“Sorry, Mikey, duty calls.” Richie turned away, slipping through the kitchen door.

***

It was a relatively slow morning, Richie and Bev hanging out at the counter while Bill cleared off his last table. “I have a favor to ask you,” Richie said, straightening out the money in the register while Bev fiddled with the coffeemaker.

“What’s up?” The machine rattled and sputtered. “ _Motherfucker_ ,” she swore, hitting the side of it with a metallic _bang_. At last, the coffeemaker whirled to life. “Sorry, hon,” Bev turned around and smiled at him. “What’s going on?”

“Do you think you could start giving me rides to work? I’ll pitch in for gas.”

“Oh.” After a moment, she said, “sure. Did Connor get switched to evenings?”

Richie shook his head, looking back down at the cash drawer. “He actually was, uh, let go yesterday.”

“Richie,” Bev came over and wrapped him in a tight hug, slender arms coming around his torso. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m gonna pick up a couple extra shifts a week.”

“And then what?” she asked, pulling back. “You can’t go on like that forever, Rich.”

(He knew that she wasn’t just talking about taking on more shifts at the diner)

Richie sighed, pushing the register closed. “There’s a pie competition at the end of the summer.”

Bev’s ginger brows drew together in suspicion. “A _pie_ competition?”

“At the Oxford County Fair. There’s a $20,000 grand prize.”

“Holy crap.” Her arms came around his middle again in another, tighter hug. “Richie, with that kind of money—”

“I know.”

She pulled back, taking Richie’s face in her hands. “I’m proud of you.” Richie felt a little too known under her gaze, trying to tear his gaze away; but Bev remained steadfast, rising up on the balls of her feet to press a kiss to Richie’s forehead.

“Thanks, Bev.”

“W-what’s going on over h-here?” Bill asked, coming out of the kitchen.

“Well, Billy. When a mommy and a daddy—” Richie was cut off by Bev’s hand slapping over his mouth.

“Don’t ruin the moment, Trashmouth.” She removed her hand and turned to Bill. “Richie’s going to win the Oxford County Fair’s pie competition.”

“C-cool,” Bill replied, unfazed by Bev’s enthusiasm.

Bill poured himself a cup of decaf, Richie’s eyes catching on his left hand. Where Bill’s wedding ring had once sat was a thin, white line. Richie couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the ring—

“You r-r-ready for your date tonight?”

“What?” Richie asked, all thoughts of Bill’s wedding ring falling from his head. He looked to Bev to see her face flushed and chagrined. “With the Tinder guy?”

“His _name_ is Ben,” Bev said, cheeks still stained red. “And yes, we’re going out tonight.”

“Way to go, Bevvy,” Richie grinned. “Do we get to see a photo now?”

(Bev had been particularly stingy with any details related to Ben, who she had been talking to for a few weeks now, including a photo. Richie was convinced that this meant that there wasn’t much to see, Bill was convinced otherwise)

“Nope.” Bev poured herself a glass of water, taking a long pull.

“Fine,” Richie huffed, faking indignation. Bev could see right through him, grinning over the rim of her glass.

“Will you help me with something, though?”

“You want to make him a pie?” Richie guessed.

“Please?” she batted her fair eyelashes at him, like he wouldn’t give her the world if she asked.

“I have the perfect one in mind.”

***

At the end of their shift, Bev and Bill followed Richie into the kitchen, the two of them gathering around one of the prep tables as Richie collected the ingredients. He dropped the them off as he wove through the kitchen, coming back at last with a saran-wrapped ball of dough and a pie tin.

“What are we making?” Bev asked, handing over a full-sized apron. She and Bill had already donned their own, waiting with anticipation for Richie to join them.

“It’s a little spin on a pie my mom used to make. She called it the Bunny, My Honey Pie.” Richie could feel tears start to prick at his eyes and he tried to push the feeling away. “It was this book she used to read to me, I—” Richie paused to suck in a breath. Bev hummed encouragingly, pressing up against Richie’s side. “Anyways, I thought we could use alfalfa honey, it’s a little warmer and spicier than clover honey. And then we’ll top it with flaky sea salt.” He opened up the jar of honey, dipping in a clean spoon and holding out for Bev to take. “Try it.”

She licked the honey off the spoon, eyebrows shooting up her face in surprise at the taste. “Oh, that’s good.”

“I’m glad you like it. Now let’s get to work.”

Richie talked Bev and Bill through the process of creating the filling for the pie, beating together the melted butter, sugar, cornmeal, salt, and vanilla, as he rolled out the pie crust and lined the tin. Mike appeared at some point, though he steered clear of the pie, eyeing the three of them warily.

“That looks good, Bill,” Richie said, peering over his shoulder. He handed Bev a spatula, “now stir in the honey and the eggs one at a time. You don’t want to overwork the batter.” Bev nodded, pouring the honey into the bowl and carefully folding it in.

“I put you on the schedule for a couple afternoon shifts next week,” Mike said.

“Thanks, Mikey.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but he didn’t comment on the nickname as he zipped up his jacket. “You sure you guys are going to be okay?”

“I just have to make it through the summer,” Richie said, taking the bowl and spatula from Bev, scraping down the sides of the bowl to incorporate into the rest of the batter. “And then I’m going to win that pie contest and leave his sorry ass and this whole town behind.” Richie dropped the spatula to the side, not wanting to overwork the filling.

“You k-know, I’m all for you leaving Connor, but you d-d-don’t have to leave D-derry,” Bill said.

“Yeah, you could move in with me,” Bev added, swiping her finger across the spatula to taste batter.

“You live in a studio apartment,” Richie replied.

“I have a _very_ comfy couch.”

Richie smiled, but he wasn’t going to concede on this point. He had lived in Derry for almost thirty years, it was time to see what else the world had in store. “It’s about more than just Connor.”

“F-fair,” Bill sighed, his mouth curling up at one corner in a smile. “You should just l-leave us all b-behind and get yourself a little p-p-pie shop. Somewhere that could use a little pie shop. Like Europ-p-pe. Or N-new J-jersey.” Bill sounded all too sincere, and Richie couldn’t actually tell if he was genuinely suggesting Richie move to _Jersey_. 

“Richie’s Pie Palace,” Bev chimed in.

Richie scoffed, but that didn’t deter Bill from saying, “Richie’s P-pastry Heaven.”

Mike huffed out a laugh, “I’m taking that as my cue to leave. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

The three of them chorused their goodbyes, Richie moving to add the buttermilk and give the filling a final few stirs before pouring it on top of the crust. “Into the oven it goes,” Richie said, handing over the pie to Bev for her to slide into the pre-heated oven.

Bill was checking his phone, looking down at the screen with a big-goofy smile on his face. “What are you smiling at over there, Big Bill? Did Lady Audra send you a salacious photograph?”

(Audra had been living in New York the last few months in the ensemble of _Phantom of the Opera_. Richie wasn't quite sure when she was coming up for a visit, and at this point he was too afraid to ask)

Bill looked up; brown eyes wide. “ _N-no_ ,” he said emphatically.

“Oh?” Bev replied, wiping off her hands on a dish towel. “Then you won’t mind showing us—”

“I g-gotta go,” Bill said, shucking his apron and gathering his things, his motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.

“Secrets, secrets are no fun,” Richie taunted, Bill rolling his eyes and shrugging on his leather jacket.

“Tr-trust me,” Bill started, “when there’s s-something to tell, you two w-w-will be the first ones to know.”

***

The next morning, Richie met Bev out front of his house bright and early. When Richie climbed into Bev’s beat up blue echo (lovingly nicknamed _Mystique_ by Richie years ago), he clocked mess of red curls pushed back away from her face and the sizeable bags under her eyes. “Morning, you look like shit. I take it that your date went well?”

“Good morning, Bev,” she said in a weak impersonation of Richie’s voice. “How are you on this fine day? Thank you so much for picking me up and driving me to work—”

“Okay, okay,” Richie laughed. “I’m so sorry, I forgot my manners.” He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Bev. How are you on this fine day?”

“Shitty,” Bev spat out, car rolling to a stop at a red light. “I’m exhausted.”

“Way to go, Bev!” Richie raised his hand for a high five, but she dragged his hand down without even looking over at him.

“It’s not like that.”

“So Ben didn’t keep you up all night, rocking your world?”

“No,” she aimed to sound dismissive, but a slight flush was painting her cheeks.

“Did he keep you up all night making sweet, sweet love—”

“Beep-beep, Trashmouth!” The diner was coming into view, Bev driving around the back to park, wrenching the parking brake up once the car was stopped. “We just talked.”

“Ew,” Richie’s face drew up in disgust.

“Shut up, you horndog,” Bev laughed. The moment sobered up between them, Bev picking at the vinyl peeling off of her steering wheel. “It was nice.”

(The sincerity and hope in her voice warmed Richie’s heart, he could help the smile tugging at his mouth)

“I’m happy for you, Bev. So when do you see him again?”

She sighed, unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing out of the car. Richie followed suit, balancing today’s pie (a classic apple pie with cheddar cheese baked into the crust aptly titled Cheesy to the Core Pie) in his arms and followed her inside the beginning. “I don’t think we’ll go out again.”

“Why not?”

“He lives in Bangor.”

“Really? He drove all the way to Derry for your date?”

“Yeah,” Bev clocked herself and Richie in. Mike waved at them from the stove, scrubbing down the flat-top. “He even got a room at the Inn and the morning off of work so he didn't have to make the drive in the dark. It seems kind of selfish to ask him to come all this way and put his life on hold like that, and I can’t afford to make the drive all the time. So, who knows,” she finished lamely. “it was a nice night.”

Richie dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

“I mean, he was pretty good in bed,” Bev added, thankfully after Richie had placed the pie down on the counter so that he didn’t drop the damn thing on the floor.

“Beverly Marsh!”

Her laugh followed her out of the kitchen and into the diner.

***

Richie was alone on the floor while Bill and Bev ate their lunches in the kitchen when the _hottest man he had ever seen_ (and Richie saw Mike Hanlon five days a week) walked into Joe’s Pie Diner; a bright bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand.

“Hi, how many?” Richie asked, once he had picked his jaw off of the floor.

“Oh, I’m not here to eat. I was wondering if Bev was around?” he asked, looking properly chagrined.

“You must be Ben,” Richie grinned, tucking the menus back into the host stand.

“Yeah. Is it weird that I’m here? It’s weird that I’m here. I should just go—”

“No, no, no,” Richie cut him off. “I’ll go get her. You just,” Ben looked ready to bolt, “sit tight.”

Richie hurried into the kitchen, following the sound of Bev and Bill’s voices. “Hey, Molly Ringwald, I need your help out there.”

Bev put her sandwich down, getting up without question and following Richie out of the kitchen. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Ben hovering near the host stand. “You motherfucker,” she swore under her breath, rolling her eyes at Richie’s shit-eating grin.

“Hi, Bev,” Ben said, one (very muscled) arm coming up to scratch at the back of his head.

“Hey, Ben.” She stepped around Richie, pushing him towards the kitchen, but he didn’t budge. Bev shot him one last dirty look before turning her attention to Ben. “I thought you went back to Bangor.”

“Yeah, I, uh,” Ben looked somehow even more embarrassed, “got halfway home and realized that I didn’t want to never see you again. I don't care about the distance, or the commute. I just want to keep getting to know you.”

Richie watched Bev’s face, studying her reaction to Ben’s confession. He had known Beverly Marsh for a long time now, and he felt particularly fluent in her little tells. But the gentle curve of her brows and the slight parting of her lips was an expression Richie had never seen before.

(It looked a lot like _hope_ )

“Oh.”

“So, yeah,” Ben blew out a heavy breath. “That’s what I came here to say and now I’m going to go.” He turned on one heel before remembering the flowers in his hand. He slowly spun back around. “These are for you. Bye, Bev. Bye,” he looked over at Richie’s nametag. “Richie.”

Ben hurried out of the diner, the door closing behind him soundly. When Richie turned over to look at Bev, she was staring wordlessly down at the bouquet. “Bev?”

She didn’t respond, her right hand gingerly coming up and sifting through the blossoms until she pulled a postcard out of the bouquet. Richie caught a glimpse of something written on the back of the card, but Bev kept it tilted towards herself as she read the message over and over again.

“Hold this for me,” she said at last, pushing the flowers into Richie’s chest and rushing out the door.

Before the door could slam shut, Richie stepped into the threshold, a rush of cold stinging air hitting him in the face. He watched, wide-eyed, as Bev sprinted across the parking lot to an unfamiliar car, knocking on the window. After a moment, Ben climbed out, mouth open in some kind of apology that he would never get to give because Bev was pulling him down by his sculpted jaw into a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

“G-gross,” Bill said from behind Richie, startling him.

“Jesus Christ, Bill. We gotta get you a cat bell or something.”

Bill rolled his eyes, still peering around Richie to watching Bev and Ben make out in the parking lot. “I’m sure the st-st-stutter works well enough. I assume that’s B-ben?”

“The one and only.”

Bill tugged Richie away from the door, letting it slam shut. “I t-told you h-he wasn’t ugly.”

***

Connor picked Richie up from work that evening, not long after Richie had sent Ben and Bev off with the last slice of the Cheesy to the Core Pie in Ben’s car for their second date night in a row.

(When Ben found out that Richie was the mind behind the Bunny My Honey Pie from the night before, he had not stopped complimenting Richie’s pastry genius which not only made Richie uncomfortable, but only endeared Bev to him further)

Connor’s rusty old pickup truck rattled into the lot, the door creaking as Richie opened it and climbed inside.

“Hey, Rich.”

“Hi,” Richie said, clicking his seatbelt into place. “How was your day?”

“Pretty good, I figured out what I’m going to do,” he responded. That perked Richie up, did he find a new job already?

“Oh?”

“Yeah, when I took that stupid job,” that made Richie flinch, but Connor didn’t seem to notice, “it was only supposed to be a way to make some money while the boys and I were trying to get discovered.”

(Richie knew where this was going, but he could only watch on with abject horror)

“There’s a battle of the bands thing down in Portland Fourth of July weekend. The first prize is a record deal; and we’re gonna enter.”

Richie collected himself, “I think that’s a great idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Richie hummed. Picking at a loose thread in the sleeve of his coat. After a moment he looked up to meet Connor’s intense gaze. “You should follow your dreams,” Richie added, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Connor, however, was convinced, smiling widely. He reached out to pat Richie’s thigh. “Thanks, Babe.”

Richie turned away, watching the town pass him outside his window. “No problem.”

***

“Well if it isn’t my favorite couple in all of Derry,” Richie grinned, grabbing two menus as Stan and Patty wiped their feet on the mat, shucking off their jackets slicked with rain. It was coming down like cats and dogs outside and Richie was not looking forward to catching the bus home at the end of his shift.

(Connor had band practice that evening. In fact, he had band practice every evening. Richie would cheer if had enough energy to do so)

“Hi, Richie,” Patty smiled in return, handing her jacket to Stan for him to hang up.

“Hey, Rich,” Stan added, bemused.

“Follow me, lovebirds.” Richie could practically hear Stan rolling his eyes behind him. He sat them at a table in his section, handing them their menus. “What are you two doing here this early on a Thursday? Looking for a little afternoon delight?” Richie waggled his eyebrows despite the fact that the Blum-Urises were focused on paging through Joe’s Pie Diner’s extensive menu.

“Beep-beep,” Stan said without looking up.

“I meant the _pies_ , dear Staniel.”

Patty glanced up; dark eyes crinkled up at the edges in a smile. “What’s the special today, Rich?”

“We All Scream Frozen Key Lime Pie.” Richie glanced out the window, the sky dark, and full of clouds, trees shaking in the wind. “Though, it seems like kind of a bad day for a cold dessert.”

“Well, I still want a slice later,” Patty replied.

“I’ll make sure to set aside one aside for you. And I’ll be back in a minute, I gotta go check on my other tables.”

Stan waved him off, and Richie retreated, topping up cups of coffee and dropping off checks. When he made his way back to their table, Stan and Patty were chatting with each other, their menus closed in front of them. He dropped off two glasses of water in front of them and took out his order pad.

“You guys ready?” Richie asked.

“Yes,” Patty said, opening up the menu once more, “I’ll have the cobb salad, no bacon, and Stan will have the meatloaf meal.”

Richie scribbled down the order. “You guys want anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” Stan responded.

“Got it, I’ll go put your order in.”

“Will you come back and hang out for a while?” Patty asked.

“Of course, Babylove.”

Stan’s face drew up in indignation. “You’re not allowed to call her that.”

“I know you’re just jealous of our love, Stan the Man,” Richie intoned, dancing away from Stan trying to swat at him with his menu and loping over to the order window.

Patty made room for Richie to squeeze himself into the booth next to her when he returned. “How’d your appointment go the other day?”

“It was alright," he shrugged. "I met Eddie.”

“Eddie?” Stan asked, taking a sip of his water.

“Dr. Kaspbrak,” Patty provided, studying Richie for a moment.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she responded, turning away. “Stan still hasn’t met the new doctor.”

“He’s,” Richie searched for something to say that wouldn’t completely give him away. “Interesting. What do you know about him?”

“Not much, he likes to keep to himself. He just moved to Derry from New York with his wife. I think she grew up near here.” Patty paused, wiping at a bit of condensation on her glass. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Richie replied, far too casually. His only option now was to distract them. “Connor lost his job.”

Patty’s face morphed from suspicion to concern in an instant, reaching out to where Richie’s hand was laying on the table to grasp it. “Oh, honey.”

“What happened?” Stan asked.

Richie sighed. “Apparently he was late one too many times.” He shrugged in reluctant acceptance. “I’m picking up some extra afternoon shifts.”

Stan looked posed to cut in, but Patty kicked him under the table. He played the pain off well enough, “if you need somewhere to go—”

“It’s fine, Stan.” A bell ringed from the order window, it seemed to be Patty and Stan’s lunch. “I’ll go get that.”

When he brought the food back to Stan and Patty’s table, they both smiled up at him kindly. Richie knew that look, knew that they were about to give him unsolicited advice that he just dint have the energy to hear right now. “You two enjoy your meal,” he put the plates down and moved to walk away, Patty catching his arm easily.

“You know you can come stay with us anytime,” she said to his back, voice dipped low as to not be heard by the other patrons.

(For some reason, the words made Richie flush with anger. It wasn’t any different from Bev offering up her couch, or Mike a room at his parents’ house. But he was just so tired of his friends thinking that he couldn’t handle the consequences to his own damn actions—)

“It’s fine, Patty,” Richie replied, voice tight. “It’s just ‘till the end of the summer.”

“What’s at the end of the summer?” Stan asked.

Richie looked up at the clock. “It’s time for my break, I’ll be back in a bit.” He shook off Patty’s arm and stalked over to the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him.

***

Three weeks after Connor had lost his job and Richie was already tired of working doubles. He usually got about an hour or two of respite before the dinner rush to camp out in the kitchen making pies. But like clockwork, Vicky would stick her head into the kitchen and say, “Hey Trashmouth, get your lanky ass out here.”

(Richie had to wonder what he did in a past life to find himself at 30 being bullied by a 17-year-old, but he didn’t have time to contemplate it further when there were hordes of Derry residents demanding pie just outside of the kitchen door)

“Hey Trashmouth—” Vicky started.

“Get my lanky ass out there, I know, I know.” Richie slid a pecan pie into the oven and set a timer before following Vicky out of the kitchen.

“You can’t just steal my jokes,” she pouted.

The bell above the door rang as someone walked into the diner. Richie reached for a handful of menus, giving Vicky an exasperated look. “I’m your elder, you have to—” the words died in his throat, gaze settling on the man standing in front of him. “Eddie.”

(It was like a shock to the system, seeing Eddie again. Like the world was in black and white, but Eddie was in full technicolor)

Eddie looked surprised to see Richie standing there, menus in hand, like he didn’t know Richie worked at Joe’s. “Hi, Richie.”

Vicky snickered behind him, but went back to doing her job before Richie said, “how many?”

“Oh, it’s just me.”

Richie took one menu off the top of the stack. “Follow me.” He sat Richie at a table in his section, right next to Mr. Maturin who was nursing a cup of decaf coffee and working on a sudoku puzzle book. “Is this your first time here?”

Eddie nodded, “yeah. I thought it was high time I ate at a famous Derry establishment such Joe's Pie Diner.” He paused, looking chagrined. “And if I’m being honest, I got these intense cravings for your pies.”

(That was high praise indeed. coming from anyone, not just Eddie)

“Well, Eds,” Eddie made a face, but Richie barreled on. “I’ll go get you a slice of today’s special, Dead on My Feet Cold Brew Pie.”

“Slow down, cowboy. I haven't eaten dinner yet,” Eddie said, flipping open his menu. “What’s good here that won’t clog my arteries?”

“You’re gonna have to manage your expectations, Dr. K. You can’t have both of those things at the same time. Especially not here."

Eddie looked up at him, dark brows raised challengingly. “Heart disease is the leading cause of death in the United States; so excuse me if I’d like to make it past 50.”

“But at what cost?”

“Your _life_?” he exclaimed. Eddie realized, at once, that his tone and volume was not appropriate for a small-town pie diner; his cheeks flushing red.

Richie had to summon all his self-control not to double over in laughter at the fury and embarrassment coloring Eddie’s face. The doctor looked ready to bolt, but Richie wasn’t quite ready for him to leave yet. “You know what,” Richie pulled out his order pad and scribbled something down. “I’m going to get you a chicken pot pie, you want anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” Eddie replied, the hunger in his eyes betraying his carefully school expression.

“It’ll be out in two shakes. Feel free to flag me down if you need anything in the meantime.” Eddie nodded and Richie went on his way, sending the order to the kitchen before meeting a family near the entrance and seating them at a booth in the corner. 

Once Eddie’s pot pie was sitting in the order window, steam rising off the top of the browned crust, Richie brought it over to his table to find the doctor chatting with Mr. Maturin.

“Here you go, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie said, sliding the plate across the table.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Richard,” Mr. Maturin said, “did you know that Edward here is a doctor?”

“I did, in fact, know that, Mr. Maturin.” He watched Eddie pick up his fork, inspecting it for germs or caked on food, before digging into his pot pie. Eddie blew on the steaming forkful before putting it into his mouth.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Eddie all but moaned. When he remembered his surroundings, his big doe eyes went wide. “I mean—”

“Is that your first Richard Tozier Pie, son?” Mr. Maturin asked, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

“No, but it’s uh,” Eddie all but licked the fork clean. “Been a few weeks. I forgot how good they were.”

Richie beamed with pride, Eddie shoveling another bite into his mouth. “You ready for your check, Mr. Maturin?”

Richie got Mr. Maturin’s tab settled, the old man instructing Eddie on all his favorite classic Derry Haunts; Eddie scribbling down his suggestions on a napkin. Mr. Maturin smiled warmly at Eddie before saying, “Richard, make sure you give Edward a discount on his meal.”

“Oh, Mr. Maturin, that’s not necessary—” Eddie tried to cut in, but Mr. Maturin was having none of it.

“We take care of our own here at Joe’s Pie Diner,” he said, standing up and tucking his puzzle book under one arm. “You’re family now, Edward.” He patted Eddie twice on the shoulder before heading out of the restaurant.

Eddie watched him go, both bemused and pleased as the old man gave the two of them a parting wave. “So he’s your boss?” Eddie asked, taking another bite of his pie.

“Yup, the infamous Joe Maturin.”

“He’s...” Eddie searched for something to say. Richie waited with bated breath, anxious to hear what Eddie was thinking. For some reason, it was very important that Eddie liked Mr. Maturin, that Eddie liked the people that Richie had trusted parts of himself with. “Odd,” he decided on at last, a thoughtful little smile tugging at his mouth. Eddie sifted through his pot pie, piercing a carrot and dropping it on to his plate. “I like him.”

Richie almost sighed in relief, “I’m glad,” he said, all too genuine.

(The words hung between them, Richie wishing he could snatch them out of the air and bury them deep down beneath the layers of jokes and insincerity he had spent the last 30 years refining) 

“You missed your appointment last week,” Eddie said at last.

“Yeah, well Connor lost his job, so I had to pick up a couple extra shifts a week.” Richie felt awkward just hovering near Eddie’s table, but none of his other tables needed assistance.

“Connor?” Eddie asked. After a moment his face shifted from confusion to understanding. “Ah, your roommate.”

Richie swallowed; his throat painfully dry. “Yeah. I haven’t had a free afternoon in a couple of weeks.”

“Do you work tomorrow afternoon?”

“Uh, nope.”

“Great,” Eddie pulled out his phone, swiping and typing with fervor. “I’ll see you at 5:00.”

“Eddie, you don’t—”

“I had a last-minute cancellation,” Eddie replied, pausing to take another bite of his dinner. “ _Fuck_ , that’s good,” he said, mostly under his breath; but Richie was quickly learning that Eddie Kaspbrak didn’t do anything quietly.

“Thank you,” Richie said at last (he wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking Eddie for). The bell above the door rang as a group of teenagers walked into the diner. “I should go deal with them.”

Eddie waved him off, shoveling another bite of pot pie into his mouth.

Despite the veracity with which Eddie enjoyed his dinner (and seemed to live his life as a whole), he took his time with the pot pie. When Richie came by his table 20 minutes later, he was just polishing off the meal, save for a little pile of carrots on the plate.

“Saving the best for last?”

Eddie’s nose wrinkled up in distaste and he shook his head. “God, no.”

“Oh?” Richie asked, one eyebrow cocked. “Not a fan of carrots, I see.”

“Not at all,” he pushed the plate away like the pure proximity of the carrots to his person was offensive. “But on the whole, that pot pie was delicious.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Richie took the plate off the table. “Can I interest you in a slice of pie?”

Eddie went through some kind of internal battle, before saying, “yes.”

“One slice of Dead on My Feet Cold Brew Pie coming right up.”

“Actually, I don’t do caffeine,” Eddie said before Richie could walk away. “Cutting caffeine can help you feel less anxious and help you sleep better at night. Caffeine can also block the absorption of calcium, iron, and B-vitamins and raise your blood pressure—” Eddie cut himself off, taking a moment to breathe, cheeks red. “But I would love a slice of pecan pie.”

(Richie wrestled a fond little smile off of his face)

“That’s one of my favorites, good choice, Eds.”

Eddie’s chagrin turned to indignation in a flash. “That’s not my name.”

Richie shrugged and retreated, cutting Eddie a slice of still-warm pecan pie from the pastry case and serving it up on a plate. “30 CC’s of pecan pie for Dr. Spaghetti,” Richie said, making his voice high and tinny, like a hospital P.A.

“I can’t stand you,” Eddie replied, taking the plate right out of Richie’s hands and digging right in. He managed to keep his reaction mostly contained, but Richie didn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes fluttered shut, dark lashes brushing against his sharp cheekbones.

(It kind of hurt to look at)

“I’ll leave you to your pie,” Richie turned away.

“Wait,” Eddie said.

Richie stopped, pausing for a moment before spinning back around. “Yeah, Eds?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Okay?”

Eddie huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I don’t get off until eight.”

“I don’t mind, I’ve got nothing else going on tonight.”

“Oh.”

(There were warning lights flashing in Richie’s peripheral vision, but he elected to ignore them)

“Then sure. That’d be great. Thanks, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“ _That is not my name_.”

***

Eddie savored his pecan pie for the rest of Richie’s shift, switching between scrolling through his phone and people watching the patrons of the diner. Richie did his best to ignore Eddie’s form out of the corner of his eye.

When it was time, Richie cashed out his tips and collected his things from the kitchen. He met Eddie at the front of the diner where he was loitering near the door. He had left Richie a very kind tip (despite the discount on his meal) that he had stashed away in his wallet instead of keeping them with the stack of tips he had accrued by the end of the day.

“You ready to go?” he asked Eddie, the shorter man jumping and turning around.

“Yes. Yeah. Let’s go.”

Richie chuckled, following Eddie out the door and to his shiny black Cadillac. He beeped the car open and Richie climbed into the front seat. “Does the missus have plans tonight?”

Eddie eyed him from the driver’s seat. “Sort of. Her mom is pretty sick, so she spends most of her time in Bangor.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, that’s why we moved down here.” He turned on the car and reversed out of his stall.

“So you’re home alone a lot?”

Eddie glanced over at him, face lit strangely by the dashboard lights. Richie couldn’t help but think that he was still beautiful, even in the low light. “Yeah.”

“It sounds kind of lonely.”

Eddie pulled out on to the street, eyes on the road. “It is.”

(They didn’t talk much on the drive home, just the low hum of NPR and the clicking of the blinker filling the silence. But it wasn’t awkward, or tense. It was a comfortable kind of silence, two quiet, lonely people in the dark)

Eddie pulled up in front of Richie’s house, the windows dark and the street still. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you at 5:00 sharp at the Derry Medical Complex so you to harvest my blood.”

Eddie sighed, “I know that you’re just making a joke, but I still find you infuriating.” Richie laughed, softer and gentler than his usual guffaw. Eddie smiled at him warmly.

(The moment seemed to stretch on forever, the dark of the car blurring everything at the edges except for the brightness of Eddie’s eyes and the pleasant curve of his smile)

(He had to look away)

“Goodnight, Rich,” he said at last.

Richie finally tore his gaze from his house, turning to look at Eddie, backlit by the streetlight. “Goodnight, Eddie. Drive safe.”

***

Greta Keene was nowhere to be found when Richie walked into Dr. Keene’s office just a few minutes before 5:00. In fact, the whole place was eerily quiet. “Hello?” he called out.

There was a sound of a door slamming somewhere in the depths of the office. Eddie appeared after a few moments. “Hey, Rich, come on back.”

He wasn’t wearing his lab coat, just a pair of pressed khakis, a light blue oxford with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and a shiny pair of brown wingtips. Richie followed Eddie, a slice of chocolate pecan pie (embarrassingly named Deepest, Darkest Secret Pecan Pie) in a takeout container cradled in his arms.

The door to Eddie’s exam room was open, needles and vials laid out on a metallic tray, ready to take Richie’s blood. He dropped his backpack on one of the chairs before saying, “this is for you,” and holding out the box.

“Oh,” Eddie was reaching for the box of nitrile gloves, but he stopped, taking the proffered box. He opened it up, peering inside. “Pecan pie?”

“Chocolate pecan pie,” Richie corrected. “Today’s special.”

A flush spread across Eddie’s cheeks, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Thanks, Rich.” He closed the box and set it carefully aside, tracing a finger across the logo embossed on the top of the box. “Hop on up,” Eddie patted the exam table and moved to put on his gloves.

“You’ve gotten a blood test before, correct?” Eddie asked, standing in front of Richie. 

“Yeah, just the once for the genetic testing though.”

“Hm,” Eddie hummed. “Hold out your arms for me like this,” he flipped his arms over so his palms were facing up and Richie followed suit. Eddie took Richie’s left arm, inspecting the skin at the inside of his elbow, fingers warm through his gloves as they danced over the skin. “I need to find a vein,” he said, switching to Richie’s right arm. There was a blue-green line dissecting his forearm that Eddie traced with a finger, making goosebumps rise up on Richie’s arms. “That one looks good.”

Eddie took a blue rubber strip and tied it around Richie’s bicep, cutting off the flow of blood to the rest of his arm. After a few seconds, he pressed on the vein again, which had swelled considerably with the assistance of the tourniquet.

“You’re not afraid of needles, right?” he asked, almost like the thought just occurred to him.

“No,” Richie shook his head.

“Alright, then let’s get this show on the road.” He took an alcohol pad, swiping across the pale skin and then put it to the side. “Make a fist.” Richie closed his hand, the muscle of his arm straining against the tourniquet. “You’ll feel a slight pinch.”

With a press of his thumb and a slight pinch, the needle was in. Blood started slowly filling the first vial, Eddie watching it carefully, his lashes like ash against his freckled cheek. There were three more on the tray next to him, a variety of sizes and colors.

The first vial was full, Eddie sliding it off the needle and attaching the next one. “How was work?” he asked.

“Fine, Mr. Maturin kept going on and on about you.” Eddie glanced up for just a moment, insecurity flashing through his brown eyes. “All good things, I promise.”

“That’s good to hear.” Eddie switched out the vials again, hands moving deftly. Richie was entranced. “Does he insist on calling everyone by their full name? I told him my name was Eddie but he only referred to me as Edward. My mom never even called me that.”

Richie laughed. “Yeah, if he was ten years younger, he would be one of those _when I was your age, I read books on paper and made friends in real life_ types,” Richie used his Crotchety Old Man Voice which made Eddie breathe out a laugh. “As it is, he just does his crossword puzzles and appreciates the wonder that is syndicated television.”

“He was really nice to me last night,” Eddie said. “Asking questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answers.”

“He’s always been like that. When my dad, uh, passed...” Richie trailed off, Eddie switching the vials yet again. “He became like another dad to me.”

Eddie looked nervous for a second before asking, “how did your dad die?”

“COPD,” Richie replied.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

(Richie felt his chest tighten for a moment, but the press of Eddie’s hand against his arm centered him somehow, making the fog in his head clear)

“He was in pain for a long, long time,” Richie said at last. “There are days that I’m just so glad he isn’t suffering anymore.”

“He was at the Derry Hospice, right?” Eddie attached the second to last vial.

“Yeah,” Richie’s brows drew together in confusion. “How’d you know that?”

Eddie shot him an embarrassed half-smile. “You mentioned something about them at your last appointment.”

“Huh.”

Eddie switched the vials for the last time and then released the tourniquet. The blood rushed back into Richie’s arm, this vial filling faster than the others. Eddie put the last vial to the side and grabbed a piece of gauze, pressing it to the insertion site before sliding the needle out. “Hold this for me, and you can relax your fist.”

Richie reached over with his left arm, pressing the gauze to the inside of his elbow. Eddie walked across the room to dispose of the needle in the plastic biohazard container mounted on the wall. The eerie silence of the office slipped back in once the relative heat of Eddie had left his side.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

Eddie’s back was still turned to him, the needle dropping into the container with a hollow _clatter_. “They went home.”

“Home?”

He turned back around, grabbing a long strip of medical tape and taking Richie’s arm in hand, wrapping the tape around the circumference of his arm. “Yes,” he replied curtly, “home.”

Once the tape was secured, he took the vials of blood and tipped them back and forth. “ _Eddie_ ,” Richie said after a few tense seconds silence. He didn’t look up to meet Richie’s gaze.

“You’re done Rich, you can go home.”

Richie gaped at him like a fish. “You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

Eddie finally looked up at that, carefully setting the vials aside. “I’ll call you when the results come through.”

“I don’t care about the results; I want to know why you’re here after everyone else has gone home.”

“I-I,” Eddie paused, pulling off the blue gloves and tossing them in the trash. “I have no response to that.”

“What time do you guys close?” Richie asked, standing up on wobbly legs. “4:30?”

“Four,” Eddie corrected, he was back to looking anywhere but Richie.

Richie shook his head in disbelief. “You stayed here an _hour_ after your office closed to do this?”

“It would seem that way, yes.”

(Richie was lost for words. Eddies expression was blank, betraying nothing. Richie could think of a million reasons why Eddie would stay at the office for an extra hour just to do this blood test, but he was offering up nothing. It was absolutely infuriating)

“Goodbye, Dr. Kaspbrak,” Richie said, stalking out of the room.

“Goodbye, Richie,” Eddie replied, voice quiet.

What did it all fucking mean? The significant looks and the rides home and the unconscious little smiles. It was making Richie crazy, just thinking about it. He hadn’t slept properly the night before, tossing and turning all night long, haunted by Eddie’s stupid dimples and his bambi eyes—

“Fuck,” Richie swore when realized he left his backpack in the exam room.

When he spun around, Eddie was standing there, backpack in hand. “You forgot—”

Richie didn’t care, tugging Eddie into a deep, heart-wrenching, time-stopping, world-ending kiss. Eddie’s free arm came around him automatically, pulling Richie closer and tighter against his lithe little body.

Richie had to all but wrench himself away, grabbing his backpack and making a run for it.

“Wait!” Eddie called, his voice echoing around the empty waiting room. Helpless, Richie stopped in his tracks, but he didn’t turn back. Not until Eddie placed a hand on his shoulder, gently turning him around.

There was an intensity in his gaze that Richie was surprised to find wasn’t all that strange to see. He had caught glimpses of the fire burning inside Eddie through the cracks in his carefully crafted veneer.

(He was all fire now. A roaring inferno of heat and light)

“What?” Richie asked, voice cracking.

“Please don’t go.” Eddie was all but pleading. “I want to get to know you better. Maybe we could go get coffee—”

“You don’t even drink coffee.”

“I could get water, or-or an herbal tea,” Eddie was tripping over his words, trying to spit them out fast enough before Richie would try to leave again.

“What was all that shit about caffeine being bad for you? What kind of doctor are you?”

Eddie was looking desperate now. “We could both have water! I don’t give a shit.”

(Richie almost broke then, laughter bubbling up in his throat; threatening to boil over)

He gathered all his self-control. “This is a bad idea. I have a boyfriend. You’re _married_. To a _woman_. You’re my doctor—”

“I know, it’s fucking crazy. And unethical. But I can’t get you out of my head, Richie.”

The words sent a shock up Richie’s spine. “I’m firing you.”

“What?” Eddie asked, genuine confusion coloring his features.

“As my doctor. I’m firing you.”

“That’s not a th—”

The words were swallowed up by Richie’s mouth, Eddie melting into his embrace, deepening the kiss further. After a few seconds of frantic making out, Eddie walked them backwards until Richie’s back hit the door, the wood rattling in it’s frame. He pulled back, dark pupils blown wide, a red flush staining his cheeks.

(Eddie was beautiful like this, just like he was in his white lab coat all those weeks ago, and at the wheel of his car, and against the red vinyl of his booth at Joe’s, and in the strange light of his dashboard. Richie never wanted to stop looking at him)

“I’m going to hell,” Eddie said, breathless.

“At least it’s not prison,” Richie joked.

“Fuck you,” Eddie rolled his eyes before sliding his mouth back over Richie’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for the link dump below, I just want to give credit to the recipes I based the pies on: 
> 
> [Here](https://sugarspunrun.com/millionaires-shortbread/) is the recipe for Millionaire's Shortbread I based the Bernie Made-Off with Millions Pie. [Here](https://milk-and.blogspot.com/2014/05/salty-honey-pie.html) is the recipe for the Bunny My Honey Pie. Here's recipes for [We All Scream Frozen Key Lime Pie](https://www.yourhomebasedmom.com/frozen-key-lime-pie/), [Cheesy to the Core](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/apple-cheddar-pie/), [Dead on My Feet Cold Brew Pie](https://thedomesticrebel.com/2016/07/20/easy-cold-brew-coffee-pie/), and [Deepest, Darkest Secret Pecan Pie](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/dark-chocolate-pecan-pie/). 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always greatly appreciated ♥️


	3. you matter to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie took his hand, winding their fingers together. “I know I like you. I know I’m gay. I know that I’m asking Myra for a divorce on July first. I know I want to keep kissing you.” He squeezed Richie’s hand, smiling up at him. “What about you?”
> 
> (The earnestness in Eddie’s gaze made Richie want to either climb into his lap or sprint out of the office altogether)
> 
> “I know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.” Eddie just raised a dark eyebrow, waiting for Richie to continue. After a long moment, “I know that I don’t want to keep living my life from the passenger seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took me so long, it was really giving me some trouble! Though, it seems kind of perfect that I upload this on day 2 of Reddie Week, seeing as there are lots of confessions and a first date in this chapter!
> 
> In terms of warnings for this chapter, there are mentions of past abuse and a little touch of Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ parenting. None of it is explicit, but I thought I should give you the heads up anyways.

“We need to slow,” Eddie sighed. When he pulled away from Richie’s mouth to speak, the taller man took the opportunity to slide his mouth across his jaw and down his neck; laving hot, open-mouthed kiss over Eddie’s pulse point. “Down,” he finished, not that Richie was following what Eddie was saying.

“ _Rich_ ,” Eddie said, voice high and breathy, Richie nipping at the warm skin. “Stop.”

Richie pulled away, though Eddie still had him pinned against the door. Eddie’s shirt was a rumpled mess, untucked from his slacks from Richie’s wandering hands. His mouth was swollen and red, a flush high on his cheeks.

“You can’t leave marks,” Eddie said, remorse in his gaze.

“Right,” Richie felt embarrassment burn in his chest. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Eddie’s hands (those beautiful, strong, perfectly formed hands) came up to cup Richie’s face. “I wish you could, too. But...”

“I know, I know. It’s for the best.”

Eddie nodded solemnly, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to Richie’s lips. “We should probably slow down.” Eddie stepped back at last, putting space between them, catching Richie’s hands as they dropped from his waist and leading him over to the over-stuffed waiting room chairs.

They settled into their respective seats, Eddie watching Richie carefully. He felt itchy under Eddie’s intense gaze. “So, you, uh” (Richie wanted to launch himself into the sun) “come here often?”

Eddie’s mouth twitched. “Do I come to my place of employment often?”

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Yeah.” Eddie dropped his face into his hands, elbows braced on his thighs, shoulders shaking. “Uh, Eds?”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie choked out through snorting laughter. He sat up, leaning back, head tipped against the wall behind him. After a few moments, Richie couldn’t help but join in; the absurdity of the situation hitting him all at once.

Eddie turned his head to look at Richie, a fond little smile tugging at his mouth. Richie’s laughter petered out, helpless under Eddie’s gaze. The doctor caught Richie’s jaw with his left hand, angling his head so that he could slide his mouth over Richie’s.

(This kiss wasn’t like the desperate making out from earlier, it felt more like a prologue for things to come)

“What’s your game plan here, Eddie?” Richie asked as the man in question settled back into his chair.

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“What _do_ you know?”

Eddie took his hand, winding their fingers together. “I know I like you. I know I’m gay. I know that I’m asking Myra for a divorce on July first. I know I want to keep kissing you.” He squeezed Richie’s hand, smiling up at him. “What about you?”

(The earnestness in Eddie’s gaze made Richie want to either climb into his lap or sprint out of the office altogether)

“I know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.” Eddie just raised a dark eyebrow, waiting for Richie to continue. After a long moment, “I know that I don’t want to keep living my life from the passenger seat.”

Was that too real? That was probably too real—

Eddie lifted their clasped hands, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Richie’s hand. The tenderness was almost too much for Richie to handle. “Do you need a ride home?”

For once, Richie didn’t want to hide behind jokes and insincerity. “I don’t want to go home just yet.”

Eddie grinned, standing and tugging Richie to his feet. “I can work with that.”

They collected their things, Eddie slipping on a fitted topcoat in a dark charcoal gray that made Richie feel sweaty. He tugged Eddie into a deep kiss by the lapel of the coat, Eddie humming happily at the back of his throat.

Eddie led the way down to his car, his mouth curving into a little smirk, like the cat that got the canary.

(Richie kind of liked the idea of being the canary, liked being the cause of Eddie’s self-satisfied looking expression)

“You hungry?” Eddie asked once the car was humming to life under them.

“Yes, but I’m not eating any of that vegan won’t-clog-your-arteries crap.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, shifting the car into reverse, throwing his arm around the back of Richie’s seat in a way that made his mouth go a little dry. “How do you feel about Italian subs?” Eddie asked.

That piqued Richie’s interests. “Gino’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I’m glad you have taste.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh. “I’m glad I have your approval.”

“You should be. If you told me that you preferred Vinny’s over Gino’s I’d have to throw myself into traffic.”

“Fuck you if you think I would lower myself to eat at _Vinny’s_. I have no idea how they passed their fucking health inspection. I’m pretty sure you can get a staph infection from just walking past their restaurant.” Eddie pulled onto the street, cutting across to the left lane. A car somewhere behind them honks their horn, “fuck off, pencil dick,” Eddie snaps. “I’ve lived in New York City for 15 years; I should be the goddamn authority on Italian subs in Derry.”

“Hey! I lived in New York for nine months, and we agree that Gino’s is superior. So you should at least deputize me.”

Eddie cut him a look out of the corner of his eye. “I didn’t know that.”

“Uh, yeah.” Richie cleared his throat. “I did a year at NYU.”

They stopped at a red light. “Just one?”

Richie nodded. “My dad got sick.”

They pulled into Gino’s parking lot, Eddie turning the car off but not moving to get out until he said, “I did my undergrad at NYU.”

Richie was frozen in the front seat, unsettled. Eddie walked around the front of the car, backlit by the florescent light outside of Gino’s. He caught Richie’s eye through the windshield, his expression unreadable until the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. Richie unbuckled and climbed out of the car, joining Eddie on the sidewalk.

***

Eddie insisted on paying for Richie’s sandwich, slapping his credit card down on the counter before Richie could even order, let alone reach for his wallet.

“Thanks, Eds,” Richie said, voice low. He grabbed their food (two Italian heroes, pepperoncinis and pickles on the side) and followed Eddie out to his car. He paused in front of the passenger door, trying to free up a hand to open it.

“No problem, Rich,” Eddie replied, close to Richie’s ear. “Let me,” he said, one hand coming up to rest on the small of Richie’s back and leaning around him to open the door.

Richie remained frozen in front of the open door, the interior light casting the leather upholstery in a yellow glow. No one had ever opened a door for him like this before, especially not Connor.

Eddie stepped away, and Richie searched for something to say. “And they say that chivalry is dead.”

“I’m pretty sure only misogynists say that,” Eddie laughed.

Richie shrugged, climbing into the car, careful of the sandwiches in his arms. Once they were both settled, he said, “are you trying to wine and dine me?”

Eddie turned the car on before responding. “Well, I don’t have any wine with me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Would it be so shocking if I was?”

Richie laughed, incredulous. “ _Yes_.”

“Why?”

(Eddie, bless his heart, sounded genuinely confused)

“Just who I am, fundamentally, as a person.”

The car was still running, Eddie tapping on the steering wheel for a moment. “And who are you, fundamentally, as a person, Richie Tozier?” he asked, turning to face Richie, expression wide and open and waiting.

(Richie, bless his heart, didn’t want to hide for once)

“The goofy looking guy with an even goofier personality.”

Eddie’s dark brows furrowed together. “Is that how you really see yourself?” Richie hummed noncommittally, eye’s flicking away from Eddie’s intense gaze. He huffed out a breath, seemingly annoyed, Richie wanting to crawl out of his own skin (or just the car altogether). “I don’t understand how this can come as a surprise to you, seeing as I practically jumped you an hour ago in my place of employment,” Eddie started, “but I find you quite attractive, Rich.”

Richie couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “I’m not just the first dude you met who was into guys during your gay crisis?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie huffed. “One, you’re good looking, okay? And very much my type.” Richie remained unconvinced. “You know, you’ve got shoulders,” he gestured wildly to Richie’s frame. “And hands—”

“I have shoulders and hands? Thanks for letting me know, Doc.” Richie affected a country twang. “I can’t wait to write back to Ma and Pa on the farm and let them know the doctor in the Big City has diagnosed me with having shoulders and hands.”

Eddie sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, obviously you have shoulders and hands. I just mean you have nice shoulders and hands. Big.”

“ _Big_?”

The doctor dropped his head into his hands, muttering to himself. He sat up at last, eyes boring into Richie’s. “You’re hot, Richie. Okay? I think you’re hot.”

“Oh,” was all Richie could manage for a moment. “And two?”

“Huh?”

“You said, _one, Richie you’re the handsomest man I’ve ever met_...”

Eddie chuckled. “I did _not_ say that.”

“Weird, it’s definitely what I heard.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “And _two_ ,” he continued, “you’re not just some convenient option for me. Nothing about the way I feel about you is convenient, Rich.”

Richie had no idea how to react to that. He felt the same way, Eddie could not have come along at a worse time.

(But, god, he wouldn’t change it for the world)

“Well,” Riche started, voice thick. “We should probably eat these subs before they go soggy.”

“We should have gotten dressing on the side,” Eddie replied, a frown tugging at his mouth as he shifted the car from park and into reverse.

As they pulled out on to the street, Richie said, “you know, you kind of drive like an asshole.”

Eddie scoffed. “I learned to drive in New York City.”

“My point still stands.”

“It’s not my fault that no one in Derry knows how to fucking drive,” Eddie punctuated his point by honking at a dingy looking gold Honda Accord waiting to turn left despite there being no oncoming cars. Eddie cut around the sedan and Richie looked back to see an old woman in the driver’s seat.

“I’m glad your windows are tinted,” he said, turning back around. “If Mrs. Atkinson saw me, she’d never sit in my section again.”

“She’s a mean old bat.”

Richie snorted, “true, but she tips really well.” Richie glanced out the window, they were headed out of Derry proper, the sun setting behind them.

“I’m sure she’d make a call into the office tomorrow and tell on me to Dr. Keene,” Eddie said with a laugh. After a few moments, Eddie pulled over onto a familiar look-out, loose rocks kicked up by the wheels.

(The last time Richie had been up here was 2008, still dressed in his maroon cap and gown, his white stole chucked into the glove compartment of his dad’s old station wagon. Stan in the passenger seat, Patty in the back leaning forward over the center console to turn up the volume on the stereo, “You Get What You Give” blaring out of the open windows. The three of them stripped down to their underthings and stood on the edge of the cliff overlooking the green-blue quarry water. Patty was always the first to jump, then Stan, who would follow her into hell, with Richie taking up the rear; _don’t give up, you’ve got a reason to live_ following him down, down, down to the icy water below)

Once Richie had shaken off the claws of nostalgia, he said, “well, Dr. Kaspbrak. How forward of you,” in his best Trans-Atlantic accent.

“Huh?” Eddie asked, turning the engine off but leaving the radio on.

“You know, bringing me up to the Quarry Lookout in your dad’s fancy SUV with its tinted windows and cushy backseat.”

Eddie’s face burned bright red, turning away from Richie’s shit-eating grin. “I-uh,” he sputtered. “I didn’t—"

Richie couldn’t contain his snickering laughter. “So you _are_ trying to wine and dine me.”

“You are such an asshole,” Eddie reached out to grab the sandwiches off of Richie’s lap. He dug through the bag for his sub, tossing the other back to Richie. “I thought it would be weird to go to my house and I didn’t know where else we could—”

“It’s fine, Eds.”

Eddie huffed out a heavy breath. “Don’t call me that.” He took a bite of his sub, chewing thoughtfully. “Did you,” Eddie swallowed, “come here often?” He winced, regretting his phrasing.

Richie laughed again. “Wow, you really are new to this.”

“I’m going to push you off this cliff.”

“That means nothing to me, I used to jump off this cliff totally of my own volition.”

(Richie realized, at once, that he probably shouldn’t tell his doctor this. But then again, Eddie wasn’t his doctor anymore, so Richie could completely enjoy the subsequent rant his confession inspired)

“Are you out of your goddamn _mind_?” Eddie’s dark brows were furrowed, eyes narrowed. “You could have broken something, or worse, been _paralyzed_. And that’s _if_ you survive at all—”

“Obviously I did survive—”

Eddie ignored Richie’s interjection. “God only knows what kind micro-organisms are in that water. Cryptosporidium, Shigella, Norovirus, and all kinds of Cyanobacteria,” he listed off each micro-organism, ticking them off on his fingers. Richie watched, entranced. “And that stuff will make you shit your brains out _before_ it kills you—”

“Oh, yeah, Dr. K, talk dirty to me.”

Eddie paused; mouth twisted into a scowl. “Your apathy and carelessness is _not_ hot.”

“But _I_ am?” Richie challenged.

“You are insufferable.”

Richie laughed. “Eddie. Eds. Eduardo. Eduardo Spaghuardo”

“That’s the worse one so far,” Eddie said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“You like it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You find me endearing.”

“I find you obnoxious.”

“Obnoxiously _hot_.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, grabbing Richie by the front of the shirt and pulling him in for a kiss. Richie laughed into the kiss, Eddie taking the opportunity to slip his tongue into his mouth which did more to shut Richie up than any disciplinary action ever had in the past.

(Richie thought that, perhaps, the next time one of his friends wanted to _Beep-Beep_ him, they should just slip him a little tongue instead)

(Then Eddie’s hand came up to tangle in Richie’s hair, tugging at it lightly, and Richie lost all train of thought completely)

After a few minutes of frantic necking, Eddie pulled back, their mouths separating with an obscene sound.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Eddie breathed, his eyes scanning Richie’s features.

“Just ‘Richie’ is fine.”

“Fuck you,” he laughed, pulling away. Richie hadn’t realized it while they were kissing, but Eddie had angled himself in his seat, leaning across the center console. If they had gone on for a few more minutes, Richie was sure that Eddie would have ended up in his lap.

Perhaps, that was why they had stopped.

“Well thanks for letting me live out my high school fantasy of getting a cute boy to kiss me up here.”

Eddie laughed, regarding Richie carefully. “So, you _didn’t_ come here often?”

“God, no.” Richie unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. “I know you think I am the hottest man you have ever seen—”

“I did _not_ say that—”

“But there were no boys willing to make out with me in public. Not that I blame them, I was real goofy looking back then and I had a tenuous grasp on proper personal hygiene.”

“Did you have boys who made out with you in private?”

“Just the one.” Eddie cocked an eyebrow, chewing a bite of his sandwich. “Connor and I used to hook up in the bathroom at the gym.” The doctor’s face drew up in disgust. “Look, beggars can’t be choosers, and Connor was an even worse closet-case than I was.”

“I don’t give a shit about who, though we are circling back to that. Why would you hook up in a _bathroom_? Did you want to contract E. Coli?”

“Well I wanted to contract something, if y’know what I mean,” Richie jeered, but Eddie remained frowning.

“HPV?” Eddie deadpanned.

Richie laughed, Eddie smirking in satisfaction at Richie’s honking laugh. “You’re not allowed to be funnier than me, man.”

“I’m not _allowed_?”

(There go those eyebrows again, Richie was fucked)

“Nope, comedy is what I use to distract from my less than sparkling personality and looks. You’re too hot to need to be funny.”

Eddie looked pleased by Richie’s compliment. “Good, now we can talk about how hot you think _I_ am, instead of the other way around.”

“You fishin’ for compliments, Dr. K?”

Eddie grinned, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “I don’t think I need to.”

It was true, Eddie’s hotness spoke for itself. He was petit and lithe, with sculpted arms and a tapered waist. Richie was convinced that Eddie had abs, and he was almost dreading finding out the truth. On one hand, the idea of Eddie having abs was very appealing and had made a few appearances in some of Richie’s daydreams. On the other, he did not want to be disappointed if he was wrong. Richie doubted that he would be able to manage any kind of disappointment by seeing Eddie with his shirt off, but it was becoming a problem—

“Do you have abs?”

Eddie coughed, Richie’s question coming while he was chewing a bite of his sandwich. He glanced over at Richie, eyes wide. Richie was frozen by his own stupidity. Eddie took a sip from a water bottle in the cupholder between them and cleared his throat of deli meat.

“Yes?” he answered, voice hoarse from almost choking.

“Is that a question?” Richie countered.

Eddie put down his sandwich and took another sip of water. “Everyone has abdominal muscles—”

“So, you _don’t_ have abs?” 

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t fucking say that.”

“So, you _do_ have abs?” Richie tried (and failed) to keep the hope out of his voice.

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but stopped, regarding Richie carefully. After a moment, he said, “I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself,” and took a bite of his sub.

Richie groaned, reaching down to pull the lever to lean his seat back. “Fuck you, dude.”

Eddie chuckled, but he smothered the laugh to say, completely seriously, “I thought we could do it the other way around.”

“Ugh,” Richie groaned, lowering his seat even more. “You are gonna kill me.”

Next to him, Eddie lowered his own seat, Richie watching out of the corner of his eye. Eddie seemed to be gearing up to say something, and Richie turned away to give him the opportunity to think without being stared at.

“Is that a sunroof?” Richie asked.

“Hm?” Eddie followed his gaze up. “I think it’s technically a moonroof.”

Richie breathed out a laugh through his nose. “You’re such a dick.”

Eddie sat up to fiddle with a few buttons, the moonroof sliding open with a mechanical whir. It wasn’t quite dark enough yet for the stars to be visible, but Richie knew from experience that they were quite pretty from up here. That was one thing Derry had going for it, little light pollution made for starry skies.

“Is that something you want?”

“Huh?” Richie turned to him; Eddie’s expression suddenly serious.

“For me to fuck you.”

Richie wanted to laugh. Or run from the car. Or tug Eddie into an open-mouthed kiss. None of those options seemed like the right choice at the moment. Eddie looked as if he wanted to have a serious conversation about this, which both terrified and comforted Richie.

At least he knew now that it wasn’t all in his head.

“Uh,” Richie cleared his throat, hoping he didn’t sound too eager. “Yeah. Yes.”

A small smile tugged at Eddie’s mouth, one cheek dimpling. “Alright.” The smile dropped from his face after a moment and Eddie turned to look up through the moonroof. “In the interest of honesty, I’ve never, uh...” He gestured wildly with one hand, a flailing limb that wasn’t very illuminating, but Richie was pretty sure he understood what it meant. “With a man.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more descriptive, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” he replied automatically. Eddie took a deep breath. “I hooked up with a few guys in college, but I could never make it past third base.” His cheeks were burning red with the confession, but Richie couldn’t bring himself to tease him.

Despite currently being in the closet, Richie had begrudgingly accepted that he was gay from the age of 13 when he realized that of his two best friends, he wanted to kiss Stan way more then he wanted to kiss Patty; and it wasn’t out of a sense of loyalty because Stan was in love with her.

Eddie seemed to have a different problem, in which he had been denying his sexuality for so long that all of this was new and terrifying. It didn’t matter if, deep-down, Eddie knew he was gay; he had spent the last decade pretending that he wasn’t.

(Repression was one hell of a drug)

“How’d you convince yourself to do that?”

Eddie sighed. “I was one of those _I only hook up with guys when I’m drunk_ dudes.”

“So if we had both been at some NYU party, and made eye contact across the room—”

“I would have tried to climb you like a tree,” Eddie cut in.

While the confession was complimentary, Richie felt a pang of inexplicable sadness. He doubted that it was because of the missed opportunity to make out with Eddie twelve years ago. It felt more like they both had one of the worst decades of their lives, and they could have skipped past all of that if they had just met sooner—

“I wasn’t ready then,” Eddie said, out of nowhere. He had been watching Richie and could apparently read his mind. “I was so deep in the closet that even if we _had_ hooked up, I would have ghosted you for the next two years. I almost had to switch majors because one of the guys I made out with at a party was in my o-chem lecture.”

There was that pang of sadness again, this time it was just for Eddie who had been living a lie for the last ten years.

“What changed?” Richie asked, afraid of the answer.

Eddie looked away again, but Richie didn’t mind. The doctor’s wide brown eyes were a little too distracting for a conversation this important. “I’m tired of being fucking miserable.”

Well that was something Richie could wholeheartedly agree with.

“And it’s not fair to Myra either.” Eddie sighed heavily before continuing. “My mom died my senior year at NYU. We had a complicated relationship...” he paused to think. “No. Fuck that. We had an unhealthy relationship. She was controlling and a liar and taught me to be afraid of everything in an effort to keep me ‘safe’. But when she died, it was like I forgot about all the bullshit she put me through growing up.” Out of the corner of his eye, Richie could see Eddie gripping the gearshift between them. “I was like in this fog? And then I met Myra and she was just like my mom...”

“And it felt familiar?” Richie supplied.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s eyes slid over to Richie, the wide brown irises containing depths that Richie wanted to get lost in.

With a courage the Richie didn’t feel worthy of, he slid his hand over Eddie’s on the gearshift. Eddie seemed to relax next to him, flipping his hand over to weave his fingers with Richie’s.

***

Eddie dropped him off at home an hour or so later and only after a little more kissing. Despite the (or perhaps, _because of_ ) the reputation of the Quarry Lookout, Eddie wouldn’t engage in anything past first base.

Before making the drive down into the Derry Flats where Richie lived, they talked about their... arrangement. Eddie was the kind of guy that lived and died by his Google Calendar, and that included making time for his extra-marital affair.

“Please don’t call it that,” he sighed, exasperated.

It was decided that the safest place for their rendezvous was Eddie’s place when his wife was out of town. A part of Richie wanted to play hard to get, but he was so desperate for human touch and a genuine connection that he was willing to make himself seem all too available to Eddie.

“Are you worried?” Eddie asked, attention focused on driving.

“About what?”

Eddie’s gaze cut over to Richie for a moment. “About Connor.”

Richie took a moment to think. There was the obvious answer ( _yes, of course_ ), but there was also a second, louder voice that Richie was tired of ignoring. “He’s never even called me his boyfriend.”

(That was not something Richie had ever said out loud before, though it had been niggling at the back of his mind these last six years)

“ _What_?” Eddie’s brows furrowed together, eyes flicking over to Richie. “But you live together.”

“Yeah. His friends just think that we’re roommates.”

“Jesus Christ, Rich.” They turned into Richie’s neighborhood, Eddie pulling over to the side of the road. “Why are you still with him?”

And wasn’t that the question of the century?

At this point, Richie wasn’t even really sure why he was still with Connor. It was easy just to brush it off to Bill and Bev as a matter of wanting to avoid being homeless, but they all knew it was deeper than that.

To a certain degree, it was a matter of pride to Richie. He wanted to be able to point at one thing in his life and say _see, I don’t fuck up everything I touch_. 

(But the man sitting in the seat next to him, lips swollen from kissing, hair a tousled mess from Richie’s heavy petting, sort of shot that excuse in the leg)

“I grew up in a house across town,” Richie said.

Eddie’s dark brows knitted together, furrowing adorably. “Okay?”

Richie sighed. “I’m getting to it, dude, just give me a minute.”

Eddie caught Richie’s eye, “take your time, Rich.”

With a heavy breath, Richie continued. “My dad was a dentist, and my parents bought a house in a boom market so...” He gestured wildly with his left hand. Eddie reached up and took Richie’s hand, tangling their fingers together and squeezing once. When Richie found his voice again, he said, “my mom only worked part time,” out of the corner of his eye, Eddie was watching him, eyes wide (like he actually cared about all the bullshit that Richie spewed). “She made the pies at Joe’s.”

“Really?” Richie nodded, Eddie’s lips twitching into a smile.

“Anyways,” Richie had to physically look away from the enamored expression on Eddie’s face in order to continue. “She loved our house, took a lot of pride in it. She planted tulips in the front yard and vegetables in the back. Even when she was sick—” Richie sucked in a breath and then let it out, “she always took the time to make the house look nice. So when she died, Dad and I didn’t want to move.”

“But?” Eddie supplied after a long moment in which Richie couldn’t find the right words.

“ _But_ ,” Richie chuckled ( _god_ , what did he do to deserve someone like Eddie Kaspbrak?) “Dad had to retire when he got sick, and the medical bills were piling up. So we sold the house and moved in up there,” he jerked his chin in the direction of the little green house up ahead. Eddie was eerily quiet next to him, so Richie had no choice but to continue on. “I don’t remember much of that time, seeing Connor again and _reconnecting_ ,” Richie rolled his eyes. “But it was easy to fall back into old patterns.”

“Familiar.”

Richie chanced a glance at the man in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, familiar.” Eddie squeezed his hand again. “When my dad died, I knew I couldn’t keep living in a two-bedroom house alone. Dad made me promise to use the life insurance check to pay off my student loans.

“At that point, I hadn’t started working at Joe’s again.” There was a question in Eddie’s gaze, so Richie added, “I waited tables there in high school. Anyways,” Richie shook his head, trying to remember what he was saying. “Connor was there, and he was a good distraction.” Eddie made a noise of disagreement. “Not good _for_ me, obviously.” Richie took a moment to think. “He was an _effective_ distraction,” he said at last.

Eddie hummed in agreement, and Richie pushed on. “I needed someone to split the rent with, and Connor wanted to move out of his parents’ house. I never... I didn’t—” Richie felt himself wince, not sure how to phrase this next confession. “I didn’t think of it as my boyfriend moving in with me.”

“How did you think of it?”

“Like instead of your roommate becoming your friend with benefits, you make your friend with benefits your roommate.”

“A matter of convenience?” Eddie supplied.

Richie chuckled, a hollow sounding laugh. Across the wide expanse of the Cadillac, Eddie’s wide brown eyes found Richie’s.

(He was reminded, suddenly, of what Eddie had said just a few hours ago, _nothing about the way I feel about you is convenient, Rich_ )

“I guess so, yeah. Things changed, though. It stopped being just sex, I got attached. I,” Richie shuddered, the trite phrase falling from his lips regardless, “ _caught feelings_.”

“Ew, I hate that.”

“I hated _saying_ it.” Eddie snorted, face angled downwards, his profile a handsome silhouette. Richie wondered what would happen if he tried to trace the slope of Eddie’s nose, if he would snap at him like a wily puppy, or lean into the touch like a dozing house cat.

(Something about Eddie’s proud aloofness and discerning gaze reminded Richie of a cat, so he was leaning toward the latter)

Before Richie could test his theory, Eddie looked up, “go on.”

“Right, uh,” Richie scanned his brain for the next bit of the story he was willing to share, not sure how he could slice it in a way that would be satisfying for Eddie, but not feel like Richie was giving too much of himself away.

(It was like when the last bit of the pie special was somewhere between a sixth and an eighth. Too much to serve to one person, but not quite enough for two. And Richie always liked to take a bit of the special home with him anyways, so he had gotten good at saving just enough for himself)

“I thought Connor felt the same way, and I still think that’s true, but he’s never made it obvious to me. Never entertained the idea of coming out.” Richie breathed out a shaky breath. A small part of his brain was telling him that this was enough, that Eddie would be satisfied, that maybe he could sneak a goodnight kiss before having to go home.

(But it didn’t really feel like home anymore, and that was the problem)

“I tried to bring it up to him. I didn’t want to push him to come out or anything, but I didn’t want to be his dirty little secret anymore. But he just blew me off, _it’s not a big deal, babe_ ,” Richie intoned. “ _If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it_.”

“Jesus,” Eddie said.

“Then I realized that it was always broken. _I_ was broken.”

“ _Richie_ —”

“No, let me finish.” Richie took a deep breath, but he couldn’t meet Eddie’s heavy gaze that was boring into the side of his face. “I had been trying to patch up the holes in my life with fuckin’ scotch tape, man.” Embarrassingly, Richie felt a single tear slip down his left cheek, right where Eddie could see it. “But by the time I realized that I had put all my eggs in the wrong basket, it was too fucking late. I was starting to sink.

“It took me years to fucking,” Richie’s voice threatened to crack, “realize it. But by then I had all but moved into Connor’s room, and he drove me to work in the morning, and he was taking my tips for groceries and rent and utilities and his goddamn car insurance for a car I’m not allowed to drive—”

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie’s voice cut through all the noise.

Richie finally looked over at him, a few more tears making their way down his cheeks. Eddie’s tone had been sharp, but his expression was soft; the corners of his mouth pointed down in melancholic frown.

Without saying anything, Eddie reached up and swept the tears away, the rough calluses on his thumbs scratching at Richie’s skin pleasantly. His other fingers curled around Richie’s ears, brushing through the strands of hair behind them. When Richie’s face was clear, if not still a little damp, Eddie pulled him close for a single, chaste kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What are you apologizing for?” Richie said, voice rough.

“I’m sorry you have to go through that.”

“It’s fine, Eds,” Richie aimed for levity, but it fell gloriously flat. “It’s not like he beats me—”

“This isn’t the Abuse Olympics, Rich,” Eddie cut in. “He shouldn’t be taking your money or making you completely dependent on him. That’s not okay.”

Richie sighed, suddenly exhausted beyond his years. “I know. I know.” He took another steadying breath, Eddie’s hands still cupping his cheeks. “I just didn’t know how to leave.” He couldn’t quite meet Eddie’s gaze for this next confession, casting his eyes down to study the leather of the console between them. “I have already lost so many people, I didn’t want to push someone else away.”

Eddie hummed sadly, tilting Richie’s face up for another kiss. “It’s okay, Rich,” he said, wiping more tears away as they streamed down his cheeks. “It’s okay.”

“I was angry, too,” Richie added, once he had found his voice again. “Why should I have to be the one to leave? Connor didn’t make it home, my dad did. And all of his stuff is still in my old room—” he had to take a breath before he could continue, the air shuddering through his chest.

(Richie was hit with a memory from a few weeks ago, Eddie pressing the cold bell of his stethoscope to his bare chest, saying _breathe in_ , _and let it all out_ )

“Why do I have to be the one to give everything up? To run away? I’m so tired of running away from things.”

Eddie was quiet for a moment, contemplative. Like Richie hadn’t been asking a series of rhetorical questions.

“Why not run towards something instead?”

Now it was Richie’s turn to lean across the (admittedly little) space between them to slide the mouths together. It was a heated kiss from the incept, Eddie’s mouth open and warm, welcoming Richie’s tongue with a satisfied little noise at the back of his throat.

There wasn’t much else Richie felt comfortable doing, this close to his house, but he reveled in the slide of Eddie’s tongue across the back of his teeth, the doctor’s hand twisting in the front of his shirt. If this were another place, another time, (perhaps another universe in which he and Eddie had found each other sooner, decades ago even. Richie wondered what Eddie was like as a kid, if his snark and sass was unbridled and unrestrained without the burden of time to weigh it down) Richie would tug Eddie across the console between them and into his lap.

As it was, Richie was the one to pull away, keeping a hand curled around the back of Eddie’s neck, the downy soft hair on his nape tickling the back of his hand. Eddie’s fingers released its chokehold on Richie’s shirt, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. Richie watched the movement of his hand, entranced by the tendons moving under and the skin dusting of dark hair across his knuckles.

“Sorry,” Eddie said, Richie glancing up to catch his wide-eyed gaze.

“It’s fine, Eds,” Richie caught Eddie’s hand in his own; their interlaced fingers pressed against Richie’s rapidly beating heart.

Eddie breathed out a laugh. “I meant for interrupting you.” He squeezed Richie’s hand, Richie’s heart stuttering in his chest.

“Oh,” Richie laughed. “Right. Well I think I was done anyways.”

“Are you sure?”

Richie shrugged, dropping their clasped hands from his chest to the center console. He caught a flash of a smile on Eddie’s face, the doctor squeezing Richie’s hand in return. “I guess.”

The radio was a low hum of music flowing out of the Cadillac’s high-end speakers; the plucking of an acoustic guitar and a crooning voice. _And it ain’t no river that needs a dam; just a slow and steady drip; I’ll be your burn card_.

“My friends don’t get it either. Why I’m still with Connor,” Richie clarified after the quirk of one of Eddie’s eyebrows. “Bill and Mike just tell me to leave him, Stan and Patty are constantly walking on eggshells around me... Bev has her own history of shitty boyfriends, but there’s only so much she can understand from the outside.”

“I don’t know who those people are,” Eddie said. “Well, I know Patty, obviously. And she’s mentioned Stan. But, yeah,” he finished lamely.

Richie breathed out a laugh, “right. Stan and Patty are my oldest friends. We went to Jew School together.”

Eddie snorted. “ _Jew_ School?” Richie just grinned over at him. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s like Sunday School, but for Jewish kids.”

“It didn’t really stick, huh?”

“What makes you say that?” Richie challenged.

Eddie blinked at him impassively. “Because that sandwich wasn’t Kosher? Also it’s Passover and you just ate leavened bread?” he pointed to the bags of Gino’s trash at Richie’s feet.

“Oh shit,” Richie swore. “It’s Passover?”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the amused little grin from Richie. “And the others?”

Richie hummed, “I work with Bill, Bev, and Mike. Bill and Mike were a year ahead of me at Derry High, but we all worked at Joe’s together when we were teenagers. Bev’s like,” he did some mental math, “five years younger than me? It’s probably for the best that we didn’t know each other when we were in school, though.”

“You worried that you would have corrupted her?”

“God no, the opposite actually. I don’t think I would haven been valedictorian if we had been friends.”

Eddie had been taking a sip of water as Richie said this, the liquid spewing out of his mouth as he coughed out, “ _what_?”

“I graduated top of my class, Spaghetti-O.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, voice hoarse from coughing, “not my name. And I thought you said that you were voted Class Clown?”

“Are those things mutually exclusive?”

Eddie’s dark eyes narrowed, his pale face half in shadow and half bathed in an orangey glow from the dash.

(Richie wanted to lean over and kiss him terribly, to press his thumbs into the soft concaves of the dimples on his cheeks, to feel Eddie’s hand find its way under his shirt like it had not a half hour ago)

“I find you infuriating.”

“Thanks, babe,” Richie grinned.

Eddie’s face twisted up in distaste. “I don’t like that.”

Richie felt himself stiffen (and not in a fun way). He had a strong desire to throw himself from the car and sprint home—

As if Eddie could sense that Richie was a flight risk, he squeezed his hand and said, “surely you can come up with a more creative term of endearment than that.”

Richie breathed out a quiet sigh of relief, “well, Dr. Kaspbrak, I do declare—” he said in his best southern lawyer Voice.

“Shut up,” Eddie groaned, leaning over the console to kiss Richie; picking back up where they left off, Eddie’s hand gripping Richie’s shirt yet again. Richie couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, their teeth clacking together. This made Eddie whine at the back of his throat and grip Richie’s jaw with his other hand, tilting his head to his liking; which made Richie whine, his mouth opening up further; much to Eddie’s delight.

They continued like that for a long time; tongues sliding together, Richie breathing in the air that Eddie was exhaling into his mouth. It took all of Richie’s self-control to pull away, stealing one last chaste kiss before settling back in his seat. 

“Hi,” Eddie said, a high blush on his cheeks.

“Hi, Eds.”

Eddie’s nose twitched, “that’s not my name,” he said, despite the undeniable pull of a smile to Eddie’s kissable mouth.

“You like it,” Richie teased.

“No I don’t,” Eddie, the liar, replied.

“You _just_ said that I come up with cute nicknames.”

“I did not say that,” Eddie laughed. “I said that they were _creative_.”

“Potato, tomahto,” he grinned.

“I take it back,” Eddie said resolutely. “You’re not funny.”

(Richie had never met a critic of his humor that he didn’t try to crack, and Eddie was no exception)

He met Eddie’s gaze, his eyes narrowing seriously. “Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Stop it,” Eddie grinned.

“Eds Spagheds.”

“ _Richie_ ,” he choked out through laughter.

“Eduardo Spaghuardo.”

“Okay, I _genuinely_ hate that one—”

“Eddie, my love.”

(Richie froze, that last one being a little too real. He wasn’t used to revealing his hand quite so quickly)

After a tense beat Richie glanced over at Eddie, the doctor’s face drawn up in an unreadable expression.

Eddie’s wide brown cow eyes searched Richie’s face; suddenly feeling all to Seen by the man in front of him. He wanted to turn from Eddie’s discerning gaze, to tuck himself away.

“Hey,” Eddie said, reaching out with the hand that wasn’t (still) intertwined with Richie’s to cup against his cheek. “Hey,” he said again, sensing Richie’s palpable anxiety. “I like that one.”

Richie blew out a relieved breath through his nose. “Oh. Good.”

Eddie kissed him again, though this press of lips was constrained. He pulled away before dripping a chaste kiss to Richie’s lips. And then another.

Before completely pulling away, Eddie sighed against his mouth; the warm air blowing across Richie’s tingling mouth, their lips catching against one another. At last, Eddie leaned back. “We should get you home,” he said, voice quiet. Disappointed.

(Richie squeezed Eddie’s hand again, trying to relay his own disappointment)

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

(And if Richie’s heart felt like it was cracking open when Eddie withdrew his hand from Richie’s grip, well that was only for him to know)

***

Richie couldn’t help the spring in his step the next morning, a fact that had not evaded Bev’s notice when she picked him up for work.

“What’s got you so chipper this morning?” she asked, suddenly suspicious of the way that Richie all but skipped down the front walk to her car. Bev’s icy blue eyes were narrowed, her auburn brows quirked.

“Nothing,” Richie lied, though he was unable to smother the grin pulling at his mouth.

Bev remained unconvinced, but she just rolled her eyes and shifted the car into drive. “You’re a terrible liar, but fine,” she glanced over at him, a mischievous smile curving at her mouth, “keep your secrets.”

Richie chuckled, casting his eyes down to the pie in his lap. “I’ll tell you soon, I just want to keep it to myself for a little while.”

“I’m just happy to see you happy, Rich.” Bev reached over to squeeze Richie’s forearm. “Though, if you could turn down your blinding smile before I have my coffee, that’d be great.”

“I’ll try my hardest.”

Once they arrived at Joe’s, Richie clocked the two of them in. Bill was early for once, and Richie could hear him swearing stutteringly at the coffee machine from kitchen.

“Morning, Mikey.”

Mike glanced up from cleaning the grill, smiling exasperatedly at Richie. “Good morning, Richie.” After a moment, he added, “you look like you’re in a good mood today.”

Richie just shrugged, but he didn’t bother to hide his smile. “It’s a good day to have a good day.”

Mike tilted his head, considering Richie carefully. “Well, keep up the good attitude, Rich.”

“Smell ya later, Mikey!”

“And stop calling me that!” Mike called after him, as Richie pushed his way out the door and out on to the diner floor.

“Richie’s got a secret,” Bev teased as Richie joined her and Bill at the counter, the two of them marrying the ketchups.

“Is th-th-that so?” Bill asked.

“I didn’t say it was a _secret_.”

Bev smiled at him, twisting the top onto the ketchup bottle in her hand. “He all but skipped out of his house today. He was _smiling_ , Bill.” Richie rolled his eyes, taking one of the empty ketchup bottles and filling it.

“Ew,” Bill’s delicate face drew up in revulsion. “It’s t-too early in the m-m-morning for sm-smiling.”

“That’s what I said!”

Richie let them continue their teasing, distracted by his phone buzzing in the pocket of his apron. He put the ketchup bottle down and pulled the phone out, finding a three messages from Eddie.

**Dr. Kaspbrak**  
_Hi, what are you doing tonight?_

**Dr. Kaspbrak**  
_Do you want to get dinner?_

**Dr. Kaspbrak**  
_Is it weird to say that I miss you?_

Richie could feel himself smiling like a goon; so it wasn’t surprising when Bev said, “see! He was smiling like that all the way over here!”

“Huh,” Bill said. Richie looked up to see him watching him thoughtfully, his own expression carefully contained.

“Hey, Bev, how’s Ben doing?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Bev cocked an eyebrow, “but I would like to talk about him, and we will get back to whatever’s making you grin at your phone later.”

Bev went on to regale the two of them with a story about hers and Ben’s latest date in which he had come over to her apartment to cook them dinner. While she was distracted, Richie replied to Eddie’s string of messages.

_good morning to you too, dr. k. i am, in fact, free for dinner tonight_

_and its okay eds, i miss you too_ 😊

Bev moved on to a lengthy description of her phone date with Ben the night before, but it didn’t seem like she would share any of the salacious details, so Richie watched the three little dots on his screen appear and disappear as Eddie typed up a response.

Eddie was sure to exchange numbers before Richie went home the night before. He did this in a very Eddie-fashion, holding his hand out and demanding Richie’s phone so he could enter his contact information. Richie saved his number under ‘Dr. Kaspbrak’ in the unlikely event that Connor was around long enough to get a glimpse of Richie’s phone—

Speaking of Richie’s phone, the device buzzed in his hand, an unbidden smile curling at the corner of Richie’s mouth as he read the message displayed on the screen.

**Dr. Kaspbrak**  
_Don’t call me that. But good, want to meet me at my office at 4:30?_

_i’ll see you there, eddie, my love_ 🥰💕

 **Dr. Kaspbrak**  
_Have a good day, Richie_.

 **Dr. Kaspbrak**  
💕

Richie had to put his phone away if there was any hope of making it through his shift. “Okay, losers,” Richie said, tucking the phone back into the pocket of his apron. “Let’s get this party started.”

***

Richie was prepared for the eerie silence of Dr. Keene’s waiting room this time around. Eddie appeared out of the back office as the front door closed soundly behind Richie. He was pulling on the same jacket he had been wearing yesterday, and he looked just as handsome in the afternoon sunlight slanting through the waiting room’s windows.

“Oh, hi,” Eddie said, a smile curving at his mouth. “You’re early, I was going to meet you downstairs.”

“Bev dropped me off,” Richie shrugged. “I told her you got my blood work results back.”

Eddie looked chagrined. “It’s going to take a few more days, I didn’t get to drop the samples off at the lab until this afternoon.”

(Richie did not give a shit about the blood work right now, not when Eddie Kaspbrak was standing in front of Richie looking like he was genuinely happy to see him)

“That’s alright,” Richie shrugged again. They were still standing about 15 feet apart, the expanse of the waiting room between them. “Oh, fuck it,” Richie said, crossing the gray carpet and grabbing Eddie by the jaw to tilt his face up so their lips could meet.

Richie had only meant to kiss Eddie chastely, in an effort to do away with the awkwardness of the situation. Eddie, however, was not in the mood for chaste pecks, his mouth opening up under Richie’s and tugging him closer by the waist.

“Woah there, Eds,” Richie said, Eddie’s mouth trailing across his jaw.

The doctor pulled back, Bambi eyes narrowing. “Not my name.”

“Aren’t you gonna buy me dinner first?”

Eddie lifted his left wrist to check his watch. “It’s not even 4:30 yet.” He looked up at Richie again, his left hand returning to Richie’s waist. “Are you hungry already?”

Richie couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his chest. “Nah.”

Eddie pursed his rosebud mouth, fighting a smile. “Do you think you’re funny, Richie Tozier?”

“Very.” Richie traced a finger across Eddie’s jawline, the doctor’s eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When his eyes opened again, Richie said, “nobody else does, though.”

Eddie’s arms tightened around Richie’s middle. “I highly doubt that.” He tilted his face up, silently asking for another kiss, and who was Richie to deny him?

Richie took the opportunity to let his hands wander across the toned muscles of Eddie’s shoulders and back under the smooth material of his jacket. Eddie hummed happily into the kiss, his own hands pulling at Richie’s shirt in search of skin.

Much to his embarrassment, an incomprehensible sound fell out of Richie’s mouth at Eddie’s hands found their destination, squeezing at the layer of fat that rounded Richie’s hips.

“You good?” Eddie asked against his lips.

“Uh-huh,” was all Richie was capable of saying, which seemed to please Eddie. In retaliation, Richie moved them forwards until Eddie’s back hit the reception desk.

“What the fuck,” Eddie said, pulling away.

“C’mon, Eds,” Richie’s hands slipped around Eddie’s taught ass (nice) and down to the back of his thighs. “Up.”

“Not my name,” he said, acquiescing to Richie’s prodding and climbing up onto the desk.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve stopped saying _don’t call me that_ ,” Richie said before trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses along Eddie’s jaw and down his neck.

“That’s because, _ah_ ,” Eddie sighed, his hands tightening on Richie’s waist. Richie kissed the same spot again, Eddie sucking in a breath through his nose. “I’ve given up on you actually listening to me.”

“That’s a good choice,” Richie said against Eddie’s pulse point. “My ability to be annoying knows no bounds.”

“Yeah, I’ve figured that, _Richie_ ,” he groaned. “Out,” he finished.

“You okay, Eds Spagheds?”

“Fuckin’” one hand left Richie’s waist, coming up to tangle in the curls at the nape of Richie’s neck, “peachy.”

“Oh!” Richie pulled away from Eddie’s neck, the smaller man making a sound of protest underneath him that gave Richie an inflated sense of self confidence. “Speaking of peaches—” Richie made to move away, but Eddie held him fast; one hand on his waist and one in his hair. “Spagheddie, if you please,” he tried to pull away again, but Eddie was having none of it.

“That one is genuinely terrible,” Eddie grimaced. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?”

(Richie felt something flare up in him at the heat in Eddie’s gaze and the flush of his cheeks; a fire he hadn’t felt in so long. Had Richie not had another task in mind, he would have been happy to spend the rest of his days standing between Eddie’s open legs, kissing him)

“I have something for you.” Eddie remained unconvinced; nose scrunched up adorably. “A piece of pie,” Richie revealed at last.

“Oh,” Eddie untangled his hand from Richie’s hair. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”  
  


Richie laughed, walking back over to the chair he dropped his stuff in when he came into the office. “It was _supposed_ to be a surprise.” Richie found the take-out container at last, turning around to bring it back to Eddie. “For you, Eddie, my love.”

Eddie blushed harder, (an impressive feat, considering) and took the box from Richie’s hand. He opened up the top, peering inside. “What is it?”

“An Apple (Crisp) a Day Keeps the Doctor Away,” Richie replied with a shit-eating grin.

It was obvious by the way he pressed his lips together and refused to meet Richie’s eye, that Eddie was trying to smother a laugh. “That is both figuratively and literally untrue,” Eddie said at last, looking up to frown at Richie.

“Oh, do tell, Dr. K.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “For one, I don’t even want to know how much butter is in this thing. If you were to eat a slice of this every day, let alone an _entire pie_ —what the hell is wrong with you, Richie? Are you trying to die of heart disease?—you would absolutely need to see a doctor. _Multiple_ doctors.” Eddie then put the pie to the side, carefully placing it on the desk next to him. “Secondly, something tells me that you don’t want to keep the doctor away.”

“What are you talking about?” Richie asked, blinking at Eddie innocently. “You know how much I hate Dr. Keene.”

“Ugh, please don’t mention my boss while we’re making out,” Eddie’s expression went from languid to tense in a split second. “In my place of employment,” he said, sobering up. He glanced up at Richie, “we should probably stop.”

Richie stepped back, unbothered. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up a bit of an appetite.”

Eddie snorted, climbing off the desk and reaching up to press another chaste kiss to Richie’s lips. “C’mon, I’m starving all of a sudden.”

***

“Tell me about your friends,” Eddie said, opening up the box of pie and digging in. At the first bite, his eyes fluttered closed and he sighed in contentment. 

(They were parked up at the Quarry Lookout again, empty take-out containers from a Mediterranean place at the edge of town tossed into the backseat to be disposed of later. Once Richie had polished off the little triangle of baklava that the cashier threw into their order upon recognizing Richie from the diner, Eddie tugged him into an open-mouthed, reverent kiss. Richie took the opportunity to coax Eddie across the center console and into his lap like he had wanted to do so desperately the night before

Despite their frantic teenage necking the previous evening, and in Dr. Keene’s office an hour ago, Eddie seemed touch-starved and almost _feral_. He pushed and pulled at Richie, seemingly unsure of how he wanted him. This was fine with Richie, who was more than willing to go along with the ride.

Richie was able to slip out from under Eddie and fold himself into the footwell of the passenger seat, looking up at Eddie in the half-light of the car’s dash. Several minutes later, Eddie tugged Richie up by his sweaty hair, sliding his slack-jawed mouth over Richie’s and flipping open the button on Richie’s pants. Several minutes after that, Eddie made the walk of shame around the front of the car and back to his seat while Richie reveled in the twinge at the back of his throat and tried to catch his breath, all too satisfied with himself)

“What do you want to know?” Richie asked.

“I don’t know,” Eddie mumbled through a mouthful of pie. He swallowed and added, “I just want to know more about them.”

Richie smiled, a soft, private thing for the two of them. “Well, Stan and Patty have been in love with each other since we were kids. I was the eternal third-wheel.”

Eddie laughed, “poor baby,” he bemoaned facetiously.

“Hey! Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch two people dance around each other for the better part of 13 years?”

“No,” Eddie responded thoughtfully, “I guess not.”

“It was endlessly frustrating. Honestly, I should have just locked the two of them in a closet when we were fifteen.”

Eddie didn’t respond for a moment, thinking. “Maybe it’s a good thing that you didn’t.” He glanced over at Richie, one cheek dimpling in a smile. “Everything happens for a reason.”

Richie’s insides melted to goo at the expression on Eddie’s face, though he didn’t have the energy to tug Eddie back into his lap again (he was thirty, after all. There was a reason that people stopped hooking up in cars past the age of 18; it wreaked havoc on your body). Instead, Richie reached out with his left hand, twisting their pinkies together.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Eddie’s pinky tightened against Richie’s. “What about Mike and Bill? How’d they end up at Joe’s after all this time?”  
  


“I don’t really know. Bill went away to school with his high school sweetheart, Audra, but they came back a few years ago to save money. Bill wanted to be a writer, and in theory you can do that anywhere; but Audra wanted to be an actress, and Derry isn’t really the place to do that.”

“No kidding,” Eddie snorted.

“Anyway,” Richie matched Eddie’s smile, “Audra went to New York about a year ago, I think she’s in the ensemble of _Phantom of the Opera_.”

“They got divorced?”

“Nah, Billy encouraged her to go. She spent years supporting his dream, it was time for him to do the same.”

“Huh,” Eddie hummed. “Well, good for them, I guess. What about Mike?”

“Mike’s never left Derry. He’s really close with his family, he doesn’t hate this place with the veracity that the rest of us do.”

  
“Never? Not even for college?”

“He did it all online, he even has a master’s degree in Library Sciences or some shit.”

“And he’s still working the grill at Joe’s?”

All Richie could do was shrug. “I don’t get it either, but he started working at Joe’s again around the time Bill came back. They’ve been best friends since they were kids; just a couple of social outcasts.” Eddie cocked an eyebrow in question. “Bill has a pervasive stutter and Mike was like the only black kid in their class.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie swore, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, Derry is a nightmare place to live.” Richie glanced out the windshield, watching an owl soar over the quarry and land on a tree branch on the far side. “I don’t know why I’m still here.”

“Is it shitty of me to say that I’m kind of glad you’re still here?” Eddie asked, his voice carrying a quiet kind of hope.

Richie glanced back over at him, the edges of his brown eyes rounded, the ever-present tension in his strong shoulders dissipated sometime between Richie fitting himself into the footwell of the passenger seat and Richie clambering up into his lap a few minutes later.  
  


“Everything happens for a reason,” Richie echoed, a soft smile curving at his mouth.

“Exactly.” Eddie’s smile lit up the whole damn car. “Now explain to me how the hell you became valedictorian.”

Richie laughed. “Oh my god, your guess is as good as mine. Stan was _so_ pissed...”

***

When Richie got home later that evening, he immediately made his way to the bathroom; turning on the shower and shucking off his clothes. Once the water was hot enough, Richie climbed into the stall, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

Richie let the hot water pound across the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. It had been a long day, not that he was complaining about spending the last few hours with Eddie. There was something addicting about saying things and having them matter to somebody. And despite his motormouth, Eddie was a good, attentive listener. Richie could tell by the way he nodded along and cut in, that he was actually listening to the things Richie said. He had gotten so used to Connor constantly ignoring him, that Richie found it truly a novelty to be with someone who paid attention to him.

(Richie was worried that if Connor had paid him just a little more attention that he would have just overlooked all the other red flags in their relationship)

Richie shook the thoughts of Eddie’s wide, doe eyes and affirmational sounds from his head, grabbing the body wash off the shelf and pouring out a generous amount. Reluctantly, Richie scrubbed away the scent of Eddie clinging to his skin (a mix of cedar wood and warm cinnamon). He washed his hair next, letting his conditioner (which he bought at Bev’s insistence when she had tried to run her fingers through his hair and encountering a rat’s nest of curls at the crown of his head) sit in his hair as he washed his body a second time for good measure.

When the water started to go cold, Richie clambered out of the shower, wrapping a yellow towel around his waist and padding towards his bedroom. Connor had (as he had every morning since getting fired) had forgone making their bed that morning. Their sheets were a tangled mess, the duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed, seeing that both Richie and Connor ran hot in their sleep. Richie pulled on a clean pair of boxer and hung up his towel, thinking.

It seemed silly to make the bed when he was about to climb into it and try to sleep, but a voice in the back of Richie’s head (that sounded suspiciously like his mother) told him that there was nothing better than getting into a well-made bed. And as long as he was making the bed, he might as well change the sheets.

With a sigh, Richie stripped the bed, tossing the old sheets into a pile to be dealt with later. He wrestled with the clean fitted sheet, managing to get it secured over the corners of the mattress after a few minutes. He picked up the pillows off the floor, fluffing them and sliding them into cases. Then he unfolded the flat sheet, tucking one end under the bottom edge of the mattress before pulling it taught over the pillows and up to the headboard. Getting the duvet to lie straight was a challenge, and Richie had to walk around to Connor’s side to tug it into place. He folded the flat sheet over the top of the duvet, taking pride in a job well done.

Richie flipped off the light, thrusting the room into darkness, save for the streetlight outside their window. At last, he folded back the corner of the bedding on his side and climbed in.

He was drifting off to sleep when the door opened, light streaming in from the hallway. He sat up in bed, eyes squinting against the light; there was a silhouette in the doorway. “Connor?” he asked.

“Hey, Rich,” Connor slurred, stumbling into their bedroom.

Even from this distance, Richie could smell the smell cheap beer and skunky weed sticking to his clothes. Richie mourned the loss of the clean smell of the fresh sheets as Connor shucked off his pants and nothing else, climbing into bed next to Richie.

Richie didn’t bother asking Connor to shower or even change into fresh clothes, it was too late now.

He went to roll over on to his left side, to face away from Connor lest he see the annoyed look on Richie’s face.

“How’d you do today?” Connor asked, half into his pillow. Richie knew he wasn’t asking about his day, and was, in fact, referring to his tips.

“Pretty good,” Richie said to the ceiling, eyes scrunching shut in annoyance.

“Good,” Connor sighed. “Cuz we need twelve hundred bucks to enter the battle of the bands.”

Richie blew out a measured breath, hands twitching at his side.

(The world was so fucking unfair sometimes, what did he do to deserve this shit? Maybe being gay really was a sin)

“We’ll figure it out,” he said through gritted teeth.

There was no response from Connor; and when Richie chanced a glance over his shoulder, he saw that his bedmate was passed out, mouth open and practically drooling.

Richie screamed into his pillow; Connor didn’t even stir.

***

The next morning at work began like it always had. Once the breakfast rush was over, Bill took his break, Bev and Richie out on the floor tending to the four tables that constituted the lunch crowd. Old Joe didn’t come in until about noon, taking a seat at his usual table, flipping through his copy of The Derry Daily while he waited for Richie to come by his table.

“Morning, Mr. Maturin,” Richie greeted his boss, flipping to a fresh page in his order book. “What can I get you this afternoon?”

“Good morning, Richard. I want the tuna melt, no pickle on the plate. And well done French fries” Richie made a noise of affirmation, scribbling down the order as Mr. Maturin continued on. “And a slice of extra-melted swiss cheese, on a separate plate of course.”

“Anything to drink?”

“I want an orange juice, but bring it out with the food. I’ll have a water while I wait.”

“Of course, Mr. Maturin.”

“What’s the special pie today, Richard?”

Richie, after tossing and turning all night, had not come up with an original pie for the special that day. This had happened from time to time, being limited by available ingredients and/or his own creativity. When all else failed, Richie made his most infamous pie, Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie.

(It was a baked spiced-chocolate cream pie with an Oreo base, topped with fresh strawberries and served with fresh whipped cream. Richie was pretty sure he could make it with his eyes closed; it was the first pie his mom ever taught him how to bake)

“Maggie’s—”

“Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie?” Joe cut in, his face brightening into a wide grin.

“The very same,” Richie deadpanned, his bad mood souring any joy he would get from seeing Old Joe grin like a damn fool.

“Oh, cheer up, Richard. Nobody makes strawberry chocolate pie like you.” He paused regarding Richie carefully. “Save for your momma, of course. It’s my favorite pie of all time. It could solve all the problems in the world, that pie.”

“I think you put too much trust in dessert, Joe,” Richie replied, tucking the order pad into the pocket of his apron. “It’s just a pie.”

“Just a pie?” Joe’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “It’s downright expert! A thing of beauty.” Mr. Maturin’s eyes glazed over just slightly, speaking into the middle distance as he said, “Each flavor opens itself, one-by-one. Like a chapter in a book! First, you get a hint of the warm cinnamon and nutmeg. Then the chocolate; dark and bitter-sweet, like a love affair.” He smiled knowingly at Richie, the younger man sure that Joe had just winked at him. “And finally strawberry... The way strawberry was always supposed to taste, but never knew how.”

Mr. Maturin paused, eyes closed in reverence. When he opened them again, he was smiling slyly. “You know what? Forget all the other stuff I ordered, just bring me the damn pie!”

“Alright, Joe,” Richie said, a smile curving up at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll bring that right out.”

Richie made his way to the kitchen, because of the fresh strawberries on top, he had to keep the pie in the walk-in. He had expected to find Mike at the prep counter, slicing fruit and veggies for the afternoon.

However, it wasn’t just Mike at the prep table; and it wasn’t a tub of sliced onions sitting on the surface, but one Big Bill Denbrough. The two men were attached at the mouth, Bill’s hands roving across Mike’s back while Mike’s were firmly attached to Bill’s hips.

“Holy fucking shit,” Richie exclaimed, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Bill and Mike wrenched apart, Mike stepping away from the wide spread of Bill’s thighs. They were both shocked into silence, which activated the part of Richie’s brain that couldn’t stand awkward silence. “That can’t be sanitary,” he said, aiming for levity.

“Uh, R-richie—”

The flush rising to Bill’s cheeks activated the part of Richie’s brain that couldn’t stand awkward situations, so Richie pushed passed them towards the walk-in. “Joe wants a slice of pie. So I’m just gonna go,” he wrenched open the door to the fridge, peering back over his shoulder at the two of them, “do that, yeah.”

Richie slipped inside the walk-in, the cold air sobering him up. “ _What the fuck_ ,” he said under his breath, reaching for the pan of Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie. He realized, at that moment, that he had forgotten to bring a plate with him. So unless Richie wanted to serve Joe’s plate on his hand, he would have to go back out there and face the fact that two of his best friends (one of which was married to a woman!) were making out with an alarming amount of familiarity.

The door to the walk-in creaked open behind him, Richie spinning on one heel to see Bill standing there, dessert plate in hand.

“Y-you forgot a-a-a plat-te,” he said, holding it out for Richie to take.

“Thanks,” Richie said numbly. He placed a slice of the pie onto the plate, mind reeling.

“It’s n-not what it l-l-looked like,” Bill said at last.

“Really?” Richie said, entirely unconvinced. “Because it looked like you were cheating on your wife with your best friend. Is there something I’m missing?”

“Uh...” Bill trailed off, not quite meeting his eye. “N-no, I g-guess that’s what it is.”

“Jesus Christ, Bill. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I-I didn’t p-plan it, Richie. It j-just happened! He’s g-g-got these nice, st-strong h-hands!” he exclaimed, like that was a good enough reason to cheat on your wife.

(Though, Richie did have to agree with Bill on that point, Mike had great hands)

“I can’t believe you’re having an affair, Bill! Your poor wife,” Richie said, his voice catching in his throat.

“My p-poor _wife_?” Bill exclaimed, his arms crossing against his chest. “My p-poor wife who left me b-b-behind to chase some one in a mil-million chance at f-fame? That wife? The one who stop-p-ped calling m-months ago?”

Richie was almost speechless. This was the first time he was hearing this about Audra. “Bill—”

“N-no,” he spat out, “ _no_.” Bill was practically vibrating with fury. “Where d-do you get off criticizing me for h-having an af-f-fair?”

That gave Richie pause. “What are you talking about?”

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “I s-saw you with your doctor outside of G-gino’s the oth-th-ther night. I d-didn’t realize they could mak-ke house calls to the b-backs-seat of an SUV.”

Richie’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “It’s not the same,” he replied defensively.

“Why’s th-that?”

The words all but fell out of Richie’s mouth: “Connor’s never even called me his boyfriend.”

(Richie could feel his own face flushing with the admission. _Embarrassment_ , his brain supplied)

Bill’s face softened, one hand reaching out to comfort him. “Oh, R-richie—"

“No, wait.” Richie took a step back, keeping the distance between them. “This isn’t about me. How long has _that_ ,” he gestured vaguely towards the kitchen where Mike was, “been going on?”

An unreadable expression cross Bill’s face as he thought about the answer. “It d-depends on how you define _th-that_.”

“Jesus Christ, Bill.” Richie scrubbed a hand over his face. “How long have you been having an affair?"

Bill’s face drew up in distaste at Richie’s choice of words, “since Febr-r-ruary.”

(So almost three months, then; Jesus. It was honestly surprising that they had kept it a secret this long)

Then Bill dropped this bomb on him: “But w-we’ve been m-making out since we were like th-th-thirteen.”

“What the _fuck_?”

Bill shrugged, all too casual for this admission. “W-we were b-b-both nervous about our first k-kisses...” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with one hand.

“Oh my god,” Richie couldn’t help the laugh bubbling out of his chest. “You guys practiced kissing on each other?”

Bill flushed adorably. “L-looking back on it n-n-now, it’s k-kind of embarrassing. It m-might not have been as pl-pl-platonic as I thought.”

“Are you kidding? It’s _adorable_!”

Somehow, Bill’s face turned pinker. Before he could say anything, however, the door to the walk-in creaked open. Richie expected to see Mike, demanding that the two of them go back to work, but it was Bev’s ginger head that poked around the side of the door.

“There you two are,” she said, brows drawn together in suspicion. “Bill, your break was definitely over fifteen minutes ago. And Rich, there’s a cute guy out there who’s demanding to sit in your section.”

“Huh?” Richie asked, words still alluding him.

“Short, dark, and handsome? He has these big—”

“Doe eyes?” Richie supplied. Bev nodded. “Right,” Richie tried to keep the satisfaction off his face. “Right-o! Back to work then, pip-pip!” Richie did in the British Guy Voice, Bev and Bill rolling their eyes in tandem, though Bill looked relieved to be done with their current conversation.

Richie grabbed Joe’s pie and pushed his way out of the walk-in, Bill and Bev falling in line behind him. He spotted Eddie right away once he made it onto the diner floor, the doctor talking animatedly with Mr. Maturin. An unbidden smile tugged at Richie’s mouth, seeing the two men joke and smile with one another.

“Alright, Joe, here’s your pie,” Richie said, sliding the plate across the table to his employed. Richie turned to see Eddie, the shorter man smiling up at him. “Hello, Dr. K. What are you doing here?” he asked, tone light to convey just how happy he was to see Eddie there.

“A pipe burst at the office,” Eddie shrugged. “We had to cancel appointments until further notice.”

“Oh no!” Joe exclaimed. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said reassuringly. “Most of the damage was contained to the ground floor.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joe said before digging into his pie. He sighed happily at the first bite; eye’s fluttering closed. After swallowing, he said, “Edward, you have to try the special pie today. Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie. It’s the best pie that Richard makes.”

“High praise, indeed,” Eddie said with a grin. “Will you put aside a slice for me, Rich?”

(How was he to deny Eddie anything? Especially when it came to pie?)

“Of course, Eds. Do you need a minute to decide what you want to eat?”

A faint blush colored Eddie’s cheeks. “No, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I’d love another chicken pot pie.”

Richie grinned even wider (he was worried if he smiled any bigger, his face would get stuck that way), and nodded. “Sure thing, Spagheds. I have a special one just for you,” he admitted for no good reason.

“Oh?” one of Eddie’s brows quirked, a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Is that so?”

Now it was Richie’s turn to blush. “It’ll be out in a jiffy. You need anything else?” Eddie shook his head. “How about you, Joe?”

“I am just dandy, Richard.”

“That’s good to hear.” He shot Eddie another smile before retreating from their tables and sauntering back to the kitchen.

Yesterday afternoon, Richie made enough pot pies to feed a small army. While he was laying out the dough into the individual tins and ladling in the filling, Richie had been reminded of the way that Eddie had picked out the carrots from his meal, his adorable face drawing up in disgust at the offending vegetable. It was no surprise, then, that Richie carefully spooned in carrot-less pot pie filling to a few of the shells. He marked the aluminum pie tins with little E’s to denote which ones were carrot-less; tucking them to the back of the pack of pot pies in the walk-in.

Richie put one slice of Chocolate-Strawberry Oasis pie aside for Eddie to enjoy later before finding one of the special pot pies and carrying it out to where Mike was cleaning the grill.

“Hey,” Richie said, remembering, at once, the awkwardness of a few minutes ago. “Table four ordered a pot pie.” He placed the pie down on the table behind Mike.

Mike turned, eyeing the pie suspiciously. “I could’ve gotten it out of the walk-in.”

“I was in there already,” Richie shrugged.

“Right.”

Richie cleared his throat, glancing away and then back at Mike. He couldn’t help but looking at his hands. He couldn’t really blame Bill for cheating on his wife for those hands; Richie had cheated for less.

“Mike, can I ask you something?”

(Mike had the decency not to point out that Richie had already asked a question)

“Sure, Rich,” he said carefully.

“Are you happy?”

Mike paused, taking a moment to really think about the question, and then his answer. “Honestly? I don’t know.” He put the grill brush down, turning to face Richie fully. “I’m in love with him. I’ve been in love with him since we were kids. And if this is the only way I can have him...” Mike looked down for a moment before meeting Richie’s gaze again. “Then it’s worth it.”

Richie didn’t know what to say to that, striding across the distance between them to pull mike into a tight hug. “Oh, Mikey...”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, sounding distinctly teary.

Richie laughed, pulling back to look at Mike’s face. “For what it’s worth?” Richie said, “I think he might feel the same way.”

Mike glanced out towards the diner, where Bill was, hopefully, taking people’s orders. “God, I hope so.” He looked back over at Richie. “Now get back to work.”

Richie smacked a kiss to Mike’s cheek. “I’m proud of you, and I love you no matter who you love.”

Mike rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Bye, Richie.”

“Bye, Mikey!”

Richie all but skipped out of the kitchen, his good mood only rising as he recognized the next couple walking in the front door.

“Staniel! Patty Cakes!” Richie cheered, loping over to the host stand to greet his two oldest friends. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Old pipes and my unconditional love for my wife,” Stan deadpanned, regarding Richie impassively.

Patty laughed, tugging Stan closer to her side. “The pipes burst at the Medical Complex and I convinced Stan to take a half day with me.”

“Well, isn’t it mah lucky day,” Richie affected a country twang. “Stanley and Patricia are here just in time for the harvest!”

“Please stop with the Voices,” Stan sighed.

Richie tried to appear somber. “I’ll try my darndest, Mr. Uris.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but a smile pulled at his mouth. “You got a table for us, or what?”

“Follow me, lovebirds.” Richie led the way to another table in his section.

“Dr. Kaspbrak!” Patty exclaimed at her first sight of the man in question.

Eddie looked up from the newspaper in front of him (it looked suspiciously like the op-ed section of Mr. Maturin’s copy of The Derry Daily), his face morphing from confusion to surprise.

“Patty,” he put the paper down. “Long time no see,” he joked. “You must be Stanley,” Eddie said, turning to Stan, one hand outstretched.

“Just Stan is fine,” he said, taking Eddie’s hand and shaking it. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Kaspbrak.”

“You can call me Eddie.” He turned to Patty, “same goes to you, Patty.”

“Thanks, Eddie. Though, I’ll probably still call you Dr. Kaspbrak at the office,” she said with a smile. “I don’t want to upset Dr. Keene.”

“I don’t blame you,” Eddie joked. “Would you guys like to join me for lunch?” he offered, catching Richie’s eye over Stan’s shoulder with a smile. “My treat. I’d love to get to know you both.”

Patty and Stan exchanged a look, the two of them shrugging acquiescingly. “That’d be great, Dr.—” Patty started, catching herself halfway through. “Eddie.”

“Sit, sit,” Eddie offered up the booth across from him, Stan sliding in first, followed by his wife.

“I’ll be back in a minute to take you order.”

“Thanks, Rich,” Eddie said, smiling up at him all too knowingly.

***

Eddie, Stan, and Patty’s lunch lingered long past the acceptable lunch hours, nursing their cups of coffee (or in Eddie’s case, herbal tea) and slices of pie. Eddie asked for the check right before Richie went to clock out, leaving (as usual) a generous tip that was based more on the time they occupied the booth than the price of their meal.

“Come join us after you clock out,” Patty said, poking at Richie’s side as he tried to gather the last of their plates which were practically licked clean.

“Will do, Patty Cakes.”

“You too, Bev!” she called around Richie to where Bev was clearing a four-top.

Bev nodded agreeingly and said, “I can’t stay for long, though. Ben’s picking me up for a date tonight.”

“What about your car?” Richie asked.

She shrugged, “I’ll just leave it here. He says that he likes picking me up and driving me around.”

Patty cooed behind Richie, “can we meet him?”

“I think he’d like that,” Bev smiled. She gathered up the last of the plates on her table. “You ready to clock out, Richie?”

“I’m right behind you, Molly Ringwald,” he said. Richie gave Eddie one last pleased expression before hurrying off to the kitchen.

“Hey you two,” Bev said to Bill and Mike (who were standing suspiciously close to one another), “come join us at table four. Stan and Patty want to meet Ben.” Bev shucked off her apron and hung it up. “That makes it sound like a double date, it’s not. Richie will be there. As well as Patty’s boss.”

(There was an awkward silence between the four of them, Mike looking at Bill who was looking Richie who was looking at Mike)

Bev’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I caught Bill and Mike making out on the prep-counter,” Richie said, voice dipped low.

Bev gasped, looking over at Bill and Mike, “what?”

Bill’s face twisted up in anger, but his response was also quiet. “R-richie’s cheating on C-c-connor with his doctor.”

“ _What_?” Bev spun around to look at Richie, the shock evident on her face.

“He’s not my doctor anymore,” Richie said, leveled by Bev’s intense gaze. “Also, the exclusivity of my relationship with Connor is suspect.”

“What the _fu_ —” Bev paused as the kitchen door swung open, one of the afternoon shift servers walking in to find the four of them, whisper-arguing with each other.

“Uh,” Vicky Fuller said, green eyes wide. “Your friends at table four want to know what’s taking so long

“Jesus,” Bev scrubbed a hand through her short hair. “We’re gonna talk about this later,” she said to Richie. “And you two as well.” The three men nodded, cowed by Bev’s sharp tone. “Let’s go.”

“Uh oh, the Trashmouth’s in _trouble_ ,” Vicky teased as Richie passed by her.

“Shut it, pipsqueak,” he said, ruffling her hair.

Richie followed his friends out into the diner, Patty pulling up a couple extra chairs to their booth. Eddie caught his eye, moving over in the booth intentionally. Richie was sure that the smile pulling at his mouth made him look like an idiot, but he didn’t really give a fuck; it wasn’t like it was a secret anymore—

Stan caught Richie’s eye as he sat down, his best friend watching him and Eddie carefully. By an act of God, before Richie’s brain could do something stupid to try and defuse the tension, Ben walked into Joe’s, a large bouquet of flowers in hand. Stan’s attention was diverted to greeting Ben, but he gave Richie a look that said they were going to have a serious talk later.

“Who’s Ben?” Eddie asked, leaning in to whisper into Richie’s ear.

Richie struggled to keep a shudder from wracking through him. “Bev’s boyfriend.”

Eddie hummed, “he’s hot.”

“No fucking kidding,” Richie laughed. Eddie’s mouth twitched with a smile. “How was your lunch?”

“Great,” he said, leaning back so that there was a platonic amount of space between them. “Though, I was so busy trying to figure out what made it special that I didn’t even realize it didn’t have carrots.”

“It didn’t have carrots?” Richie exclaimed. “When I said it was special, I just meant that it was made with love.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, pressing his lips together to try and smother a grin. When he spoke again, his voice was dipped low, “I don’t know, Rich. That kind of seems like the same thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully I can get the last chapter up in the next week and a half!
> 
> Here are the links for the pies mentioned in this chapter:  
> [An Apple Crisp A Day Keeps the Doctor Away](https://www.thespruceeats.com/apple-crisp-pie-3050788)  
> [Maggie's Chocolate-Strawberry Oasis Pie](https://www.bingingwithbabish.com/recipes/piesfromwaitress)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always greatly appreciated ♥️


	4. a dream is a soft place to land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay.” Stan paused. “Are you fucking your doctor?”
> 
> Richie coughed and sputtered, turning to look at Stan with a wide-eyed gaze. “No,” he said truthfully.
> 
> “Really? Because the sexual tension between you and Dr. Kaspbrak is palpable, dude.”
> 
> Richie scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s not my doctor anymore.”
> 
> Stan was silent for a beat. “Jesus Christ, Richie.”
> 
> “Also, we haven’t made it past third base.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start off by saying that I'm so sorry that this chapter is late! It's mostly because one chapter turned into two, which turned into three. I figured it was best to just finish writing the damn thing so I can get the rest of the fic out to you guys in a timely manner. 
> 
> So, chapter four goes up today (Monday), chapter five will be up on Wednesday, and chapter six (plus a little epilogue for an auspicious seven total chapters) will be up on Friday!

The eight of them gathered around the booth where Stan, Patty, and Eddie ate their lunch; Mike and Bill sitting on chairs pulled over from a nearby table (pushed awfully close together) while Bev perched on Ben’s lap. The eight of them were a cacophony of noise, Bill and Mike talking over each other about god knows what as Stan listened on. Eddie leaned around Richie (their thighs pressed together under the table) to speak to Bev. Richie watched on, taking in the gathering of friends, old and new, getting on like a house on fire.

Patty was able to convince Bev and Ben to stay for a little while, ordering a selection of pies and a pitcher of iced tea from Vicky. “Ben,” she said, “what do you do?”

“I’m an architect,” he replied, leaning around Bev to speak to Patty.

“Don’t sell yourself short, babe,” Bev said, patting his knee. “He owns his own architecture firm.”

“It’s a very small firm—” Ben said, looking chagrined.

Bev waved him off, “he’s just being modest. He’s got 6 full-time architects on staff.”

“Wow,” Patty’s dark brows creeping up her face approvingly. “What do you guys specialize in?”

“Sustainable housing. We have contracts with cities to build eco-friendly affordable housing in low-income areas. We take on independent clients as well, just to off-set the costs.”

“Just in Maine?” Richie finds himself asking.

“Uh, no.”

Vicky appears then, her arms laden with small plates of pie. “I’ll be right back with the tea and some silverware. You guys need anything else?”

“Nah, we’re all good, kid,” Richie said.

Vicky rolled her eyes, “don’t call me that, Trashmouth.”

“Trashmouth?” Eddie said, confusion coloring his features

“Uh...” Richie trailed off, Vicky skipping away in glee.

“Oh,” Stan turned away from his conversation with Bill and Mike. “He didn’t tell you about his nickname?”

“Can it be considered a nickname if it’s almost twice as long as my name?” Richie asked.

“It’s the same number of syllables,” Mike said. Vicky arrived with the pitcher of tea and a handful of forks. “Thanks, Vic,” Mike turned back to Richie. “I say it’s still a nickname.”

“I sec-c-cond that,” Bill said with a definitive nod.

“But _Trashmouth_?” Eddie implored. He looks between Stan, Bill, and Mike before settling on Richie at last. “You have nothing to say on the matter?”

“There’s nothing _to_ say, Eds. I didn't give myself the nickname, Stan did.”

Stan scoffed. “Have you heard the shit he spews? He’s more than earned the name.”

Eddie’s expression turned thoughtful, “okay, that checks out,” he said after a few moments.

“ _Ouch_ , you wound me, Eds.”

“Not my name.” Eddie poured himself a glass of iced tea. Richie watched, enraptured, as he took a long pull from his glass.

When Richie was finally able to tear his gaze away, Stan was watching him carefully again. After a moment, he said, “and when he says something really terrible,” Stan cut his gaze over to Eddie, “you just have to say—”

Mike, Bill, Bev, and Patty joined Stan, saying “beep-beep!” in unison.

Richie wanted to crawl in a hole and die, his face burning red in embarrassment. Next to him, Eddie was eerily still in his seat. Richie anxiously turned to see Eddie pressing the pads of his fingers against his mouth. After a few tense beats, Eddie’s shoulders shook in a single, hiccupping laugh. Then another. Before long, Eddie was doubled over in laughter, one hand braced against his face. The other hand dipped below the table, resting casually on Richie’s thigh.

Eddie’s reaction had the rest of Richie’s friends laughing as well, only Ben looking on with sympathy (though, judging by the way he was pressing his lips together, he was trying to smother his own laugh as well).

A rush of affection for the assholes seated around him burned through Richie. An unbidden chuckle bubbling out of his chest. It was inevitable (being surrounded by all that joyous laughter) that Richie would eventually join in. Richie slouched into the red vinyl of the booth, tipping his head back along the top of it. Under the table, he slipped his hand over Eddie’s, their fingers not quite tangling together.

“Fuck,” Richie said once he had composed himself, sitting up and raking the hand that wasn’t holding Eddie’s under the table through his hair. “You guys are assholes. Including you, Eds,” Richie cast his gaze sideways, Eddie smiling smugly. “Benji, you’re on thin fucking ice.” The man in question laughed, Bev turning to give her boyfriend a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Don’t come crying to me when—”

The bell above the door to the diner jingled and a familiar form stepped over the threshold and the words died in Richie’s throat. “What’s—” Stan started before turning around to see Connor.

At catching a glimpse of the eight of them gathered around a single table, Connor’s eyes narrowed. Richie felt frozen in his gaze, a deer in headlights.

“I should,” he said, voice strained, as he stood up. Eddie drew his hand back inconspicuously, taking his glass of iced tea in hand and taking another sip.

Richie crossed the diner to where Connor was standing, stony faced at the front of the diner. “Hey,” he said, aiming for casual. “What are you doing here?”

Connor glanced away, looking over at the table where everyone else was sitting, eerily quiet. “Picking up take out.”

“Cool, cool,” Richie said, the palms of his hands pricking with sweat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I’m—”

Connor pushed past him, stalking over to the cash register. “I’m picking up an order for Connor,” he said to Vicky, voice gruff with annoyance.

“It’s almost ready,” she said, unbothered by his tone. “Your total is $38.56,” Vicky slid the receipt across the counter for Connor to take.

“Rich?” he said, looking over at Richie, one fair brow raised.

Richie wasn’t proud of what he did next, but there was something arresting about Connor’s gaze. “I got it,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his tips.

Vicky snatched the receipt back up, “let me add your employee discount.”

After a few moments, a new receipt printed. Vicky ripped it out of the machine and handed it to Richie. He separated two tens and seven ones from his stack of tips and handed them over to Vicky. “Keep the change.”

“You don’t need to tip when you get take-out—” Connor said, mostly under his breath.

Richie just rolled his eyes and pocketed his receipt. “Keep it, Vic.”

“Thanks, Richie,” she replied, voice quiet. A bell rang behind her, and Vicky spun around to grab two paper bags full of food. “Here you go,” she said, handing the bags over. “Have a nice night,” her voice was tight, her smile a quick flash of teeth.

“Help me, will ya, Rich?” Connor asked, handing over one of the bags before Richie could answer.

“Sure,” Richie said, quiet. He followed Connor out of the restaurant, feeling seven sets of eyes hot on the back of his neck, like a tangible thing.

(The air was still outside, the first bits of summer seeping in. Connor’s truck was parked well over the line into a handicap space, so much so that it was more of a surprise if Connor hadn’t known he parked like an asshole, than if he had)

“What’re you still doing here?” Connor wrenched open the passenger door to throw his bag of food in.

“Stan and Patty came for lunch and asked me to join them when my shift was over,” Richie said. It was the truth, though there were many details he was omitting.

“Kind of a long lunch,” Connor’s tone was leading. Richie shrugged.

(He had been playing this game with Connor for six years now; he had learned how to hold his own against him)

“Who was that other dude?”

“Who? Oh, Ben? That’s Bev’s new boyfriend.”

Connor took the bag of food from Richie’s hands and tossed it onto the passenger seat. “No, not him. The guy you were sitting next to.”

Richie met Connor’s eye, unafraid for once. “Oh, that’s one of the doctors Patty works with.”

Connor nodded; his lips still pursed. “You two seemed pretty friendly.”

“He’s come to the diner a few times. He tips pretty well.”

The mention of Richie’s tips was enough to distract Connor. “How’d you do today?”

Richie sucked in a quick breath through his nose. “Alright,” he said at last. Richie took the remaining bills from his pocket and handed them over.

Connor leafed through the bills. “I thought you said that doctor tipped well?”

“He did, and then I paid for your dinner.”

Connor scoffed. “You didn’t have to tip that girl. What’s up with her face, anyways? Who let her be a waitress with a scar like that?” He said, laughing at his own, mean joke.

(Richie felt himself go almost irrationally angry. Vicky was a smart, funny, and kind young woman. And so what if she had a highly visible birthmark covering the left half of her face? That didn’t make her _ugly_ )

“Well, you’re gonna have to do better than this,” Connor said, shoving the bills into his pocket. “The boys and I are going down to Portland in a few weeks to scope out the competition before the battle of the bands.”

Richie kept his face perfectly neutral. “Sounds like fun. How long will you be gone?”

He shrugged, “coupla days? The first weekend of June.”

Richie nodded, smothering the delight he felt when he thought about a few, Connor Bowers free days in his future (even if he was bankrolling the whole damn thing). “You guys practicing tonight?”

“Yup,” Connor closed the passenger side door. “Don’t wait up.”

 _I never do_ , Richie thought.

“Drive safe,” Richie said.

Connor just nodded and walked around the front of the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. He left without a goodbye, his truck roaring to life and tearing out of the lot.

Richie felt hollow, watching the car peel away from the restaurant. Connor’s truck was well out of sight when the bell above the door rang, someone joining Richie on the pavement.

“You okay?” Stan asked.

“Fine,” Richie replied. He was surprised to find that it was true. The anxiety he felt around Connor all but dissipated once the man in question was out of his direct line of sight.

“Okay.” Stan paused. “Are you fucking your doctor?”

Richie coughed and sputtered, turning to look at Stan with a wide-eyed gaze. “No,” he said truthfully.

“Really? Because the sexual tension between you and Dr. Kaspbrak is palpable, dude.”

Richie scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s not my doctor anymore.”

Stan was silent for a beat. “Jesus Christ, Richie.”

“Also, we haven’t made it past third base.”

Stan didn’t respond, turning on one heel and stalking back inside. Richie felt himself laugh and followed his best friend in to the diner. Their table had returned to its once raucous state, Eddie ranting about something, hands cutting through the air with his intense gesturing while Mike and Bill looked on with rapt attention. Bev, Ben, and Patty were chatting away, the latter looking up to watch Stan and Richie walk back over.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Richie said, settling back down next to Eddie. The doctor had slid over towards the window in the booth, and Richie missed the heat radiating off of him something fierce.

“It’s okay Rich,” Bev said, catching Richie’s eye. “We should probably go though, huh babe?”

Ben checked his watch. “Yeah, we probably should.” He looked out over the rest of them. “It was really great getting to know you guys, we should do this again sometime.”

“Hell yeah,” Richie grinned over at him. Bev was clambering off of Ben’s lap, turning around to help him up off the chair.

“You guys should take some pie,” Patty said.

“I’m not going to say no to free pie,” Ben grinned.

“I’ll go get a couple of boxes,” Bev said, pressing a kiss to Ben’s cheek. She turned to Richie, her eyes narrowed. “Play nice while I’m gone.”

“Hey!” he exclaimed, genuinely offended. “I’m always nice.”

“You are _nasty_ , Trashmouth,” Bev said, before loping away.

“I sh-should probably head out-t, t-t-too,” Bill said, polishing off his plate of French silk pie. He glanced over at Mike inconspicuously.

Mike cleared his throat, sliding his plate that once had a slice of cherry pie, on to the table. “So should I. But we really should do this again. Soon.”

Mike and Bill said their goodbyes, the two of them slipping back into the kitchen to leave out of the employee entrance. Bev packed up the leftover slices of pecan and custard pie before saying goodbye. She and Ben walked out the front door, hand in hand.

(Richie suddenly— _desperately_ —wanted that; to be able to hold someone’s hand without shame or worry)

(To hold Eddie’s hand without shame or worry)

Richie glanced over at the doctor, his head bent over the screen of his phone, typing something furiously. “You writing a book over there, Doc?”

“Hm?” Eddie looked up. After a moment, his cheeks tinged pink. “Uh, no. Sorry, that was rude.”

“It’s fine, Eds,” Richie waived him off.

“Not my name.” Eddie locked the device and moved to slip it back into his pocket. In the process of putting his phone away, he scooted closer to Richie on the bench; a Move if Richie had ever seen one.

Richie felt himself grin, catching Stan’s eye from across the table. Stan breathed out a put-upon sigh, taking his glass of iced tea and downing half of it in one go.

“So, Stan,” Eddie said, smiling that smug little smile of his that both terrified Richie and turned him on. “Richie told me that despite your best efforts, he was your high school valedictorian.”

(This awoke a twelve-year-old grudge in Stan; his face drawing up in distaste, eyes narrowing menacingly)

Rather than trying to placate his friend, Richie decided to lean into the resentment Stan so easily felt for him. “Yeah, Stan, you wanna tell Eddie how mad you were that I was our valedictorian?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “It’s not that Richie was our valedictorian,” he said to Eddie. “It’s that _I_ wasn’t.”

“I mean,” Richie cut in, “it was a little about me.”

Stan sighed, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Richie felt himself smirk, sensing Stan’s barely contained anger. He was like a shark, smelling blood in the water. “He was going to tell Patty he loved her in his speech,” Richie said to Eddie in a stage-whisper, grinning at Stan across the table.

“Aw,” Patty sighed, leaning her head onto her husband’s shoulder, “Lovebird, I didn’t know that.”

Richie could feel Eddie shaking in silent laughter next to him, Stan glaring at Richie from across the table. “Yeah, that’s because I told Richie in that in _confidence_ , dickwad.”

“And I kept your secret for 12 years! That’s pretty good!”

Stan rolled his eyes, relaxing into Patty at his side. Eddie, after composing himself, asked, “how long were you two dating at that point?” Richie couldn’t contain his snorting laughter at Eddie’s question, Stan’s face burning red all the way up to his ears and down to the collarbones that were peeking out of the open collar of his shirt. “What?” Eddie asked, looking between the other two men, wide-eyed.

“We hadn’t started dating yet,” Patty said, pressing her lips together to smother a laugh. Stan looked mortified. “Though, I was already in love with him,” she smiled, interlacing their fingers.

“See, I told you, Eds! Those two were dancing around each other for _years_.”

“It’s true,” Stan sighed. “And I would feel bad for putting you through that, but you were your own kind of handful back then. And now. And probably until the day you die.”

“Are you insinuating that I am going die before you, Staniel?”

Stan said _yes_ at the same exact time Eddie said _of course you are_.

“Yowza!” Richie exclaimed, clutching at his heart over his shirt. “Have some mercy on me, jeez. That character assassination kind of seems like a war crime.”

“I’ll show you a war crime,” Stan mumbled, pushing a forkful of apple pie into his mouth and chewing aggressively.

Eddie’s expressive brows furrowed. “Do you even know what constitutes a war crime, moron?”

(Despite Eddie’s harsh tone and words, Richie felt himself grinning like a lovesick fool)

“No, Dr. Kaspbrak,” Richie feigned innocence and naivete, “would you be willing to enlighten me? I could come by your office hours—”

“Beep-beep, Trashmouth,” Eddie said, cheeks tinged pink.

Richie felt a rush of pride as the way he had flustered Eddie, even if it earned him a _beep-beep_ in the process. He turned, ready to share his gleeful expression with Stan and Patty, catching the latter’s eye.

For most of the afternoon, Patty had been smiley and more than amenable; fueled by good food and good company. However, something in the last 30 seconds had changed that. Patty’s expression was discerning; lips pursed, eyes narrowed, perfectly sculpted brows knitted together. She looked between Eddie and Richie, eyes flicking back and forth.

“Oh my goodness!” she whispered at last, suddenly illuminated. “Are you two—"

“Patty—” Richie started.

“What the hell?” she said to Eddie.

“He’s not my patient,” Eddie said, perfectly composed. “Not anymore.”

“Rich?” she asked, turning to face the other man.

“I fired him,” Richie shrugged.

“That’s not how that works,” Eddie, Stan, and Patty all said in unison.

Richie shrugged again. “It’s fine.”

Stan sighed again, world-weary and exhausted. Patty spun to look to him next. “Did you _know_?”

“I found out like 10 minutes ago, I was going to tell you in the car.”

(Well, at least Richie had been right about _something_ )

Patty groaned, scrubbing her face with both her hands. “I swear, you are going to send me to an early grave.”

“Who are you talking to? Me or Stan?”

She looked up. “Both of you.” After a moment, she added, “all three of you.”

(Despite the dressing down Patty was ready to give them, Eddie brightened up next to Richie; as if he was happy just to be included)

“Sorry, Patty,” Richie said.

Patty turned to Stan. “Sorry, Patty,” he said.

At last, she turned to Eddie. “Sorry, Patty?” he said, voice rising up at the end like it was a question. She cocked one eyebrow, waiting. “Sorry, Patty,” he repeated, this time with feeling.

“Thank you, boys,” she said. Patty caught Vicky’s attention, miming a check mark in the air above Stan’s head. Vicky nodded and retreated to the register. “We should probably get out of here, Lovebird.”

“What do the Blum-Urises have planned for the evening?” Richie asked.

“Left over Matzo from Seder and several episodes of _The Bachelor_ saved on our DVR.”

“God,” Richie moaned, slumping back in his seat. “You guys are _so_ married.”

“Shut up, Trashmouth. You crave domesticity and intimacy just as much, if not more, than the rest of us.”

Richie kicked Stan under the table. “Hey, stop trying to blow up my spot, dude.” 

Stan just rolled his eyes. “You aren’t fooling anyone, Rich. Right, Eddie?”

Richie turned to watch as Eddie’s face drew up apologetically, “no...”

“God dammit,” Richie groaned, head tipped back over the top the booth.

“It’s okay, Rich,” Eddie patted his knee under the table. “I think it’s cute.”

“I’m _not_ cute.”

“Yes you are,” Stan, Patty, and Eddie said in unison.

Richie couldn’t help but preen under all the praise, despite how much he hated compliments. “Well, awl say—”

“Nope,” Stan said, cutting him off. “No more country farm-hand Voice. I can’t put up with it anymore.”

“You’re no fun, Stanny,” Richie pouted.

“You’re damn right.” Vicky came by then with the check. “Thank you,” Stan said, handing over his card for her to take over the register.

“Hey—” Eddie was reaching for his wallet to pay, but Stan waved Vicky on.

“You bought lunch; we’ve got dessert.”

Eddie frowned, but he put his wallet away. “Don’t worry, Dr. K; you can buy me dinner.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but Eddie seemed pleased. “Only if you’re well behaved.”

(Had Richie not been sitting down, he was pretty sure he would have fainted, right then and there)

“Yowza, Eds,” he said, slumping farther in his seat.

“Hey, sit up,” Eddie poked at Richie’s side; only successful in making Richie wriggle further away, too ticklish for his own good. “Good posture can help joint pain, circulation, digestion, lung capacity, low-energy levels, and headaches.”

(Richie gazed upon Eddie as he ranted about poor posture habits, especially among Americans. He was pretty sure he could listen to Eddie drone on and on about any number of dull topics and never grow old of the veracity and energy that Eddie spoke with when he was discussing just about anything)

“You guys are gross,” Stan said.

Richie (reluctantly) turned away from Eddie. “Those in glass houses should not throw stones, _Babylove_.”

“Hey,” Patty frowned. “ _I’m_ Babylove.”

“Sorry, Patty,” Richie apologized. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eddie smiling at him, his head propped up in one hand (who looked like a lovesick fool now?).

Vicky came back with Stan’s card, handing it over with his receipt and a pen. While Stan signed the check, Vicky said, “you guys need any boxes?” Stan handed her the receipt, “thanks.”

“Yes, please,” Eddie said. There were still a few slices of untouched pies, but he almost looked embarrassed to ask for take out boxes. “What?” he said, defensive, after Vicky nodded and walked away.

“Nothing, you’re just cute.”

Eddie’s face twisted further into annoyance. “Let me get this straight—” Richie tried to jump in and make the obvious joke, Eddie cutting him off with a preemptive “beep-beep, Trashmouth.” He sighed and continued on, “I can’t call _you_ cute, but you can call _me_ cute?”

Richie grinned, “yup!” He reached out to pinch Eddie’s (very pinchable) cheek. “Cute, cute, cute!”

Eddie smacked his hand away, opening his mouth to chide Richie, the words dying on his tongue. Richie turned to see Vicky standing at their table, take out boxes in hand.

“Here you go, Trashmouth,” she said, a barely contained laugh in her voice.

“Thanks, Vic.”

“You guys have a good night.”

“You too,” they chorused.

Richie handed over one of the boxes to Eddie. “You get first pick of the leftovers, Eds.” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, taking stock of the plates on the table. At last, he gingerly moved the slice of lemon meringue into his box. Eddie looked over at Richie, as if waiting for approval. “Good choice, Spaghetti.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, “not my name.”

“Blackberry and strawberry rhubarb for the Blum-Urises?” Richie asked. They nodded, boxing up their own desserts. “Which means Richie gets to take home the shoofly pie.”

“What is shoofly pie?” Eddie asked, watching Richie’s hands as he worked.

“It’s a molasses cake baked into a pie shell that was invented by the Pennsylvania Dutch in the late nineteenth century.” Richie collected the rest of their plates and forks, piling them up neatly at the end of their table. “It’s made without eggs, so historians are pretty sure that it was usually made in the winter when chickens don’t lay eggs.”

Richie then took their empty glasses and stacked them, sliding the tower to sit next to the plates. “It’s sort of a derivative of gingerbread, just without all the spices. It was usually served with coffee, which is why it’s baked in a pie shell,” Richie looked up to see his friends and his boyfriend (was Eddie his boyfriend? Was that a little too trite for two adulterous thirty-year-old’s?) staring at him, wide-eyed. “So it’s easy to hold in one hand while drinking coffee with the other,” he finished quickly. “Why the hell are you all looking at me like that?”

“Where the hell did you learn all of that?” Stan asked.

Richie shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious (or what that just sadness?). “Maggie taught me about all kinds of pie.”

“Maggie?” Eddie asked.

“My mom.” Richie wiped at a bit of condensation on the table with a napkin. “Everything I know about pie, I learned from her.”

“Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“It really was an amazing pie, Rich.” A blush creeped up Eddie’s cheeks. “I think the best I’ve ever had. And not just of your pies.”

“Well, thanks a million, Spagheds.” The flustered expression on Eddie’s face melted away, the doctor rolling his eyes and leaning back in the booth. “I figure if I can’t come up with anything better, I’ll probably submit that pie in the Oxford County Pie Contest.”

“The Oxford County Pie Contest?” Patty asked.

Richie looked between the other three again. “Oh right, I haven’t told you guys yet. At the end of the summer there’s a pie contest at the Oxford County Fair. The grand prize is $20,000.”

Patty let out a low whistle. “Wow, Rich,” Stan said, taken aback. “That’s amazing.”

“What are you gonna do when you win?” Eddie asked.

“When?” Richie turned to look at him, Eddie’s expression entirely earnest (it gave Richie hives just to look at). “You have a lot of faith in me, Dr. K.”

Eddie shrugged, like it was nothing. “You make the best goddamn pie I’ve ever eaten, Rich. It would be a total injustice if you lost.”

(Richie wanted to hide behind his humor, as he always did. To deflect and deflect. But there was something in Eddie’s unwavering gaze that scared Richie with just how brave it made him feel)

“If I win—”

“ _When_ ,” Eddie cut in, his gaze holding Richie’s.

“When I win,” Richie managed to get out, “I’m gonna take the money and do whatever the hell I want.”

Stan nodded, something looking like pride in his gaze. Patty grinned at him from across the table, grabbing Richie’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “And we’ll be there to cheer you on when you do.”

“Me too,” Eddie said, voice low. He was smiling in that small, private way that Richie adored.

“Sounds like a date,” Richie replied, perhaps a little too loud if Stan’s reaction was anything to go by.

Stan just rolled his eyes and stood, “come on, Babylove; let’s get out of here.”

Patty followed Stan out of the booth, “bye you two,” she said, dropping a kiss to the crown of Richie’s head and reaching over to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Dr. K.”

“Bye,” Eddie waved them goodbye, turning his head to watch the two of them walk out of the diner and into the late afternoon sunshine.

(With the warmer weather, the days had been getting longer; the light stretching well into the evening this far up north. Richie thought back to the summers of his youth, how he was allowed to stay out until the streetlights came on, trolling the streets of Derry well into the evening)

“You wanna head out, Spagheds?”

Eddie breathed out a put-upon sigh at the nickname before saying, “sure.”

Richie slipped out of the booth, waiting for Eddie to do the same before heading out of the diner. Eddie’s car was parked on the far side of the lot, perfectly centered between the white lines of the parking space. Eddie beeped the car open as they crossed the asphalt, their shoulders bumping into each other’s and hands brushing against one another’s.

“That was fun,” Eddie said once they were in the car, drawing his seatbelt across his chest. 

“Yeah,” Richie grinned over at him. “It really was.”

Eddie’s hand twitched between them wanting to reach out. Richie slid his hand over to the gearshift, twisting their pinkies together. “Your friends are pretty cool, Trashmouth.”

Richie laughed. “No, they aren’t. I love them, but they’re a bunch of losers.”

“Hey, you can’t hold being friends with you against them,” Eddie’s tone was casual and blasé, but there was a mischievous glint to his wide brown eyes.

“Look, I am totally aware that I’m also a loser. You’re _definitely_ a loser,” Eddie scoffed indignantly, but Richie barreled on, “and I barely know Hot Ben, but I’m pretty sure he’s a loser too.” After a moment he added, “I only hang out with losers.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, “I wish I could prove you wrong, despite the fact that your conclusion is made on faulty reasoning, you logical fallacy deploying asshole,” Richie doubled over in laughter, Eddie preening at the sound. He continued, “but it’s true, I am a loser. With a capital L.”

“That’s what we should call ourselves,” Richie said. Eddie hummed questioningly, “Capital L Losers.”

“That’s a little wordy, don’t you think?” Eddie pursed his lips thoughtfully. “We should call ourselves the Losers Club.”

(Richie looked over at Eddie, the top two buttons of his dove gray Oxford were undone, his tie nowhere to be found. A few locks of dark hair were falling across his forehead, and Richie wished he had the courage to reach his hand out and push the hair away from Eddie’s face)

“I think they’d like that,” he said at last.

There was a beat before Eddie spoke. “Do you think they liked me?” he asked, voice quiet.

Richie could sense real, palpable, anxiety rolling off of Eddie at the question. Rather than laugh off such a ridiculous thought, Richie gave sincerity a try. “I know they did,” he did his best to sound reassuring. “That’s why they told you all those embarrassing stories about me.”

Eddie breathed out a relieved laugh, “I can’t believe you started a rock war with your childhood bullies. It’s a wonder that you don’t have any permanent brain damage.”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t have brain damage,” Richie grinned lasciviously over at Eddie. “God knows I’m stupid for you.”

The doctor rolled his eyes, but Richie could see the laugh shaking at his chest. “You’re so dumb.”

“You like it.”

“That I do.” Eddie finally turned the car on and shifted into reverse. They pulled out of the lot, leaving Joe’s a blinking neon shrine in the review mirror.

“I need to tell you something,” Richie said once Joe’s was well out of view. He wasn’t quite sure where Eddie was taking him, the night was still young. Eddie’s eyes cut over to him for a moment before flicking back to the road. “Bill, Bev, and Mike know about us, too.”

“What?” the car lurched to a stop at a yellow light. Eddie looked over at Richie, his eyes wide and panicked.

“Bill apparently saw us at Gino’s the other night, and he told Mike and Bev.”

“Why would he do that?” the light turned green and the Cadillac rolled into the intersection.

“He and Mike have been hooking up since February.” Richie knew it sounded like a non-sequitur, but it was an important part of the story. It didn’t seem to faze Eddie.

“What the fuck?” Eddie’s eyebrows shot up his face, but he didn’t look away from the road.

“Yeah, apparently they used to make out all the time as like teenagers. I had no idea.”

“Jesus,” Eddie swore under his breath. They turned into a quiet side street, Eddie pulling over and letting the car idle. “When did you find that out?”

“Today. When I went to go put your lunch order in.”

“Wow,” Eddie shook his head in shock. “Wait, did you catch them hooking up in the _kitchen_?” Richie nodded his head. “Oh my god, that’s _so_ unsanitary,” he shuddered in disgust.

“That’s what I said!”

Eddie looked over at him, half his face in shadow. He let out one breathy laugh, then another. Soon, he was practically doubled over in his seat, wracking with guffaws. Richie couldn’t help but follow after him, the absolute absurdity of the situation dawning on him all of a sudden.

Once Eddie had caught his breath, he tugged Richie into a kiss by the front of his uniform shirt.

(Richie couldn’t remember the last time he had been this incandescently happy)

“You don’t have to worry about them knowing,” Richie said after Eddie had pulled away and settled back into his seat. “The Losers. They hate Connor, so there’s no chance of them talking about us.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Eddie replied. “And Myra isn’t here enough to be privy to any gossip.”

“Actually, on that note,” Richie said, Eddie perking up next to him. “Connor’s going out of town in a few weeks. I thought maybe we could...” he trailed off, not quite sure what he was asking of Eddie.

“When?” Eddie asked, a small smile playing at his mouth.

“First weekend of June.”

Eddie pressed his lips together, but Richie could still see the smile in his big brown eyes. “Well there’s a good chance Myra will be gone then, but I’ll do my best to make sure of it.”

“Cool,” Richie nodded his head, feeling like a near-sighted bobble-head.

“ _Cool_?” Eddie cocked an eyebrow.

Richie had to laugh to let out the tension building in his chest. “What the fuck do you want me to say, man?”

“I don’t know, _man_ ,” Eddie countered. “I didn’t realize you were a teenager.”

“Hey,” Richie said defensively, “excuse me for being fucking excited to spend a few uninterrupted days with you. I guess I’ll just go fuck off—” Richie made to leave the car, Eddie pulling him back by the shoulder.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

“What can I say, Eds,” Richie shrugged, “I’m a man of integrity.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You didn’t even unbuckle your seatbelt, Einstein.”

“Huh,” Richie looked down to see the gray material stretched across his chest.

“ _I’m a man of integrity_ ,” Eddie grumbled in a poor imitation of Richie’s voice. When he looked at Richie, he was trying to hide a smile. “You’re full of horseshit, you know that?”

“Oh Eddie, baby,” Richie said, leaning in, “you talk so sweet to me.”

Eddie rolled his eyes again, grabbing Richie by the front of his uniform “get over here, Trashmouth.”

***

One of the worst days of Richie’s life started out like any other. It was a warm summer morning when Bev picked him up for work. Richie found Connor passed out on the couch in the living room when he woke up, sneaking out the door in the hope of not waking the sleeping giant.

The night before he and Eddie had met up at the Aladdin to see a Throwback Thursday ( _barf_ ) showing of _Jurassic Park_ on the big screen (the way it was meant to be seen). Richie reveled in the quiet of the theater, in the press of Eddie’s ankle against his, in the way that Eddie would grab his hand on the armrest between them at all of the tense moments.

At the end of the night, Eddie had dropped him off at home with a final, buttery (Richie used all his best tricks to convince Eddie to let them get butter on their popcorn, the doctor listing off all the dangers of consuming saturated fats while Richie listened gleefully on) kiss.

(There was just a week now before Connor was off to Portland with his band, and Richie was itching for proper alone time with Eddie. He still hadn’t been to Eddie’s house, despite Myra being in Bangor more often than not. They ended up at the Quarry Lookout most nights. Richie almost felt bad for all of the teenagers he was cock-blocking, but then Eddie kissed him, and Richie decided that he could not fucking care less)

Richie was so distracted by memories from the night before, that Bev’s announcement was even more shocking. It was just after the lunch rush, only a two-top in the corner occupied by a young girl and her grandmother. Bill and Richie were wiping down menus and rolling up cutlery respectively when Bev came out of the kitchen after her break.

“I need to tell you guys something,” she said, eyes cast down and away from the two men as she fiddled with the napkin holder on the counter. “You too, Mike.”

Mike appeared in the order window. “What’s up, Bev?”

Richie felt his hackles rise, guard up. “Did something happen with Ben? Because I don’t care if he fixed the railing on my porch, I will make sure that no one will find the body.”

“No,” Bev said, finally looking up, her gaze reassuring. “I mean, it has to do with him, but he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

This calmed Richie significantly. He genuinely liked Ben, he was kind, but not a total pushover; he could hold his own next to a spitfire like Bev, but he had a calming presence as well. It didn’t hurt that Ben was incredibly handy and more than willing to lend his services. He had come over to Richie’s house just last week to fix the railing on his porch, all for half a dozen Peachy Keen Tarts.

Richie was glad that Bev had found someone that made her so happy and treated her with the respect that she deserved. Ben was also a great addition to their group, fitting right in with the other Losers.

(When Richie told the others Eddie’s idea to call themselves the Losers Club, they were more than receptive, adopting the moniker happily)

“B-Bev?” Bill asked after a long moment. Richie looked over at Bev to see her anxiously picking at her cuticles.

“Right, sorry.” She looked up and tucked her hands into the pockets of her apron. “I’m moving to Bangor. At the end of June.”

“ _What_?” Richie said, his own voice ringing in his ears.

“I’ve been feeling so guilty these last few months that Ben has to drive all the way out here to see me. He owns his own company for godsakes and he still makes the 2 hour drive—one way mind you—multiple times a week!” Bev exclaimed, suddenly defensive. After a beat, she blew out a heavy breath and took her hands out of her pockets, raking them through her hair instead. “I just,” she sighed, “I love him, and I want to spend more time with him and I fucking hate Derry, so it makes sense to leave.”

“Bev, are you sure it’s a good idea to move in with him so soon?” Mike asked, ever the even keeled and levelheaded one.

“I’m not moving in with him,” she said, turning to Mike. “My aunt set me up with a daughter of a friend of hers who needs a roommate. It’s complicated, I know, but... I think it’ll be good for me, to get out of Derry.”

“D-do you have a j-j-job lined up?”

“No, not yet. I’m, uh,” she smiled nervously, “I’m gonna go back to school.”

“Oh! That’s a great idea Bev!” Mike was genuinely excited by this revelation, though he was the most overqualified diner cook in Maine, so Richie found it unsurprising.

“I’ll probably still wait tables, but I have some really good scholarships lined up.” She beamed at them, her smile faltering when she turned to Richie. “Rich?” she asked, her voice almost cracking.

Richie was frozen. He was unsure of what his face was doing, but by Bev’s tone, he knew it wasn’t good.

The thing was...

The thing was that Richie hated Derry just as much as Bev did. For the two of them, Derry wasn’t really home; it was the place they grew up, sure, but they had tried to leave the minute they could. It wasn’t their fault they ended up back here, waiting tables at the same place they did when they were in high school. 

And Richie loved Bev, and he wanted her to be happy more than anything. So why was he so mad that she was leaving when he knew it was the only thing she ever truly wanted?

( _Because she has a way out_ , his brain supplied, sounding spiteful and jealous even in his own head)

Richie realized, all at once, that it wasn’t Bev’s fault that she had found a ticket out of this sorry ass town and it really was selfish of him to make her feel bad for leaving. He loved her, and he didn’t want to lose her, so that meant being happy for her when she decided to move on.

There were tears welling at the corner of Richie’s eyes, spilling over on to his cheeks. “Oh, Richie—” Bev said, stepping forward to pull him into a hug.

“No, no,” he stepped back, Bev’s face falling. “You can hug me in a minute,” Richie sniffed, “but let me say something first?” Bev nodded and Richie took a deep breath. “I love you and I’m so happy for you, but I am gonna miss you so fuckin’ much, Red.”

Bev started to cry then, and Richie rushed forward to wrap his arms around her. They stood like that for a long time; shaking with tears, but clutching at each other nonetheless. Just a couple of capital-L Losers, they really had earned the name.

***

“Can I get you anything else, Dr. K?” Richie asked, clearing away the dessert plate and fork on the table in front of Eddie, they looked all but licked clean. When he had ordered today’s special (An A-Pear to Remember, which was a pear tarte tatin) Eddie couldn’t hide the little smirk playing at his lips. Richie wanted to grab him by the cheeks and kiss him, but that would have to wait.

“Just the check, Richie.” Eddie held out his credit card for Richie to take.

“Comin’ right up, Eds.”

“Not my name!” he called after Richie with a laugh. With his back to Eddie, Richie didn’t even try to smother his gleeful expression.

That morning, Connor and the other members of the Smoking Banana left for Portland, all packing into Belch Huggins’ sister-in-law’s minivan and making the four-hour drive. They had stopped by Joe’s for coffee and pastries and Richie had been in such a good mood just thinking about spending the weekend with Eddie, that Richie had paid for their breakfast himself.

“You’re in way too good of a mood,” Bev said, wrestling the ancient coffee maker into submission. “You excited for a Connor-less weekend?”

“It’s more than that, Bevvie-baby,” Bev rolled her eyes at the nickname, but didn’t chide him. Richie dipped his voice, not that anyone who wasn’t in on his secret could hear. “I’ve got a hot date this weekend.”

“Oh?” Bev’s eyes flicked over to the booth where Eddie was sitting. “The doctor’s making a house call?”

“I alread-dy made that j-j-joke,” Bill said, strolling out of the kitchen. He looked flushed and a little disheveled, the collar of his uniform lying crooked.

Bev’s scrutinizing gaze fell to the other man. “You’re one to talk, Denebrough.”

Bill just shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “What c-can I say? I’m d-doin’ pretty g-good these d-days.”

“Gross,” Richie said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“I’m in too good of a m-m-mood to deal with your neg-gativity, Tr-trashmouth.”

Bev looked between the two of them. “I don’t like this. I’m used to you two being the Negative Nancy’s, this is bullshit.”

“Don’t swear on the clock, Marsh,” Mike said, leaning through the order window.

“You’re just salty because you haven’t seen Ben in almost a week,” Richie said, plugging Eddie’s order into the register.

“You’re right, and I’m very tense right now.”

“I’ll keep you in my thoughts in these very trying times.” The register printed out the receipt. “Especially when I’m getting di—”

“Beep-beep, Trashmouth,” Bill, Mike, and Bev said in unison. Eddie looked up at the sound, one bushy brow cocked.

Richie loped over to Eddie’s table (he sat at the same booth every time, right next to Joe’s usual table) with the check. “Just need your John Hancock. Get it, _co_ —“

“Beep-beep!” Eddie exclaimed.

“Wow,” Bev said, sidling up to Richie. “Two _beep-beeps_ in less than a minute; that’s gotta be a new record.”

“N-nah,” Bill said, appearing out of nowhere. “You d-didn’t know him when were teenag-gers, he was way less funny and w-w-way more of a t-trashmouth.”

“Thanks, Big Bill,” Richie rolled his eyes. “What the hell are you two doing over here anyways? Don’t you have your own tables to—” Richie looked around at the restaurant. It was empty, save for Eddie’s table. “Never mind.”

“Our shift’s almost over anyway,” Bev shrugged, sliding into the booth across from Eddie. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work, Dr. K?”

“I took a half day to attend to some personal things,” Eddie smiled that playful little smile of his that Richie loved so much. Bev slid her gaze over to Richie to give him an approving smile before turning back to Eddie. “Richie told me that you’re moving to Bangor, are you excited?”

“Yeah, yeah I am. Packing has been hell, but I’m pushing through.”

“Do you need any help?” Eddie asked. “I’m sure Richie and I could come by this weekend.”

“Speak for yourself, Eds. I put a moratorium on helping Bev pack in protest of her leaving me.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’re a drama queen.”

Bev reached out for Richie’s hand. “I love you too, Trashmouth.” She turned her attention back to Eddie. “And that’s not necessary, Ben's coming down to help me.”

“Alright, if you say so.”

“You’ll come to my goodbye party, right? It’s on the 28th.”

Eddie looked to Richie, as if seeking approval. Richie gave a slight nod of his head and Eddie turned back to Bev. “Of course.”

“Good.” Bev glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Speaking of good, it’s clocking out time. You guys ready?” she asked Bill and Richie.

“Let’s hop to it,” Richie said, helping Bev out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, a scowl twisting at his mouth. “I’ll wait for you out front.”

Once he had officially clocked out and hung up his apron, Richie threw his backpack (stuffed to the gills with everything he would need for the weekend) over one shoulder. He knocked his other shoulder against Bev’s. “If you need me this weekend, don’t.” Bev snorted out a laugh while Bill just rolled his eyes. “See ya later, Losers!”

Richie found Eddie loitering outside of the restaurant. He was dressed in a light pink button up with the sleeves rolled up to combat the June heat. The top two buttons of Eddie’s shirt were undone, and Richie desperately wanted to get his mouth on the little patch of untanned skin that was visible there.

Eddie looked at him like he knew exactly what Richie was thinking, his eyes squinting and nose twitching with a smirk. “You ready to go?”

“I was born ready, Spaghetti.”

The pleased little expression twisted into something dismayed. “I hate you.”

“I don’t think you do, Eds.”

Eddie turned away, but Richie caught him trying to fight back a smile. “Let’s go, Trashmouth.”

“You talk so sweet to me,” Richie said, following Eddie to his car.

“You want sweet?” Eddie asked, turning around. Richie was struck dumb by his expression, the crooked quirk of his lips and mischievous glint to his round eyes. Eddie took two slow steps forward, one hand reaching out to smooth the front of Richie’s work shirt, coming to rest on Richie’s pec, right over his heart that was rattling in its ribcage.

(They stood like that for a long time, Richie’s heart threatening to beat right out of his chest. Eddie, the asshole, kept his big brown eyes locked on Richie’s, his crooked smirk softening into a secret little smile. Richie wanted to kiss him. To tousle his perfectly coiffed hair. To reach out and press his own hand to Eddie’s chest and see if his heart was beating just as hard)

“You nervous, Tozier?”

Richie shook his head. “No. Excited.”

Eddie’s small, secret smile widened to something open and revealing. “Me too.” He dropped his hand, fingers catching against the inside of Richie’s forearm and brushing against his palm. “C’mon.” He took a step back, Richie unconsciously following him. Eddie’s smile grew a little wider. “Let’s get out of here.”

Eddie beeped open the car and Richie climbed into the front seat. When the Cadillac rumbled to life, smooth jazz started to filter out of the speakers. Richie couldn’t help but laugh, tugging the seatbelt across his chest and plugging it in. “You tryin’ to set a mood, Dr. Kaspbrak?”

The doctor scoffed and rolled his eyes. He reached out to change the station, cutting to an advertisement for a used car dealership. “One, I would never use jazz to try and seduce someone. And two,” Eddie’s gaze cut over to Richie’s, “please don’t call me that when we’re, you know.”

Richie couldn’t help the expression of delight tugging at his face. “Oh? And why not?”

Eddie’s brows furrowed, his gaze scrutinizing the man in the passenger seat. “It’s weird. I’m not your doctor anymore.”

 _Anymore_ , Richie wanted to tease, but he knew it was a sore subject. “But you’re still _a_ doctor.”

“It’s not hot,” Eddie said, shifting the car into reverse and pulling out of the stall. “It’s very much the opposite.” There was a defeated edge to Eddie’s voice that made Richie’s heart stutter in his chest.

(He would have done anything to keep Eddie from feeling like that)

“Hey,” Richie said, “if you hadn’t been my doctor, you never would have seen this _glorious_ ,” he gestured to his Pillsbury Dough Boy stomach and slouching posture, “bod.”

Eddie’s expression when from pensive to defensive in a flash. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re attractive before it gets through your thick skull, Richie?” Eddie sped through a yellow light that turned red as they crossed through the intersection. Richie couldn’t help but laugh, only making Eddie angrier. “I mean it, dipshit. How many times? ‘Cause I’ll do it. I just need a number.” Richie devolved further into giggles, sinking lower in his seat. “Do you think your criminally low self-esteem is funny, asshole?”

“N-no,” Richie choked out through his laughter.

“Then why the fuck are you laughing?”

Richie caught his breath, “I just like making you angry, Eduardo.”

Eddie huffed petulantly. “I mean it though. You’re handsome—”

“Even though I don’t have abs? Not all of us can be cut from marble like you are.”

(Eddie did, in fact, have abs. Not that Richie had seen them. The interior light of the Cadillac could only do so much for Richie’s terrible vision, though it did make for great mood lighting. But Richie's had his hands up Eddie’s professional button ups enough to have a pretty good idea of what Eddie’s abs actually looked like. He was quite excited to find out if they really were worth the hype)

“No,” Eddie said vehemently. “You’re handsome, Richie. Period. No qualifiers necessary.”

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” Richie said, voice small.

Eddie huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You’re so fucking dumb.”

“So you just like me for my body?” Richie didn’t quite hit the joking tone he was going for, still thrown off by Eddie’s assertions from earlier.

With a quiet exhale of breath, Eddie reached across the car for Richie’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “Nah,” he said, successfully employing a casual tone despite the thundering of the pulse in his wrist where it was pressed against Richie’s.

They drove the rest of the way to Eddie’s place in a comfortable silence. Richie knew that Eddie rented a place up in Derry Heights ( _that’s a nice neighborhood_ , Richie said when he asked where Eddie lived. _Yeah, if you like trees_ , Eddie had responded, mouth quirking up in a sarcastic little smirk), on the white-collar side of the Kenduskeag, but they had never ventured past the Quarry Lookout.

Pulling into the driveway of a red brick faced and white shuttered cottage, Richie felt a little jolt of nerves in his stomach. After a moment of thought, Richie identified the reaction as more excitement than fear. Eddie squeezed his hand once before letting go, needing two hands to park; one pressing a button attached to the sun-visor on the driver’s side of the car, and other guiding the SUV into the garage.

“Cute place,” Richie said, getting one last glimpse of the porch before it was totally obscured by the garage.

“Thanks, it was the only rental in town that came fully furnished.” Eddie parked the car, pulling up the parking brake and turning off the engine. The light in the garage was off, Eddie’s face cast mostly in shadow, save for the light streaming in from the open garage door.

(He was so handsome that Richie was frozen in his gaze)

Eddie reached out, the hand that had been holding Richie’s for the majority of the car ride, sliding over Richie’s stubbly jaw and around his ear. His other hand came forward to brush and unruly curl from Richie’s eyes. Then it was just Eddie, cradling Richie’s face, looking upon him with so much...

Richie leaned forward, sliding their mouths together to stop the intrusive thought in it's tracks.

After a few moments of extensive kissing, Eddie pulled away (their mouths parting wetly in a way that, had Richie not been sitting down, would probably turn his knees to Jell-O). “God,” Eddie breathed against Richie’s mouth. “I wanted to do that all day.”

“ _Why_ ,” Richie breathed, pitching his voice higher, “Mr. Kaspbrak—”

“Nope.” Despite Eddie’s scolding tone, he pressed a chaste kiss to Richie’s lips. “No Voices.” He pulled back, dropping his hands after one last brush of his thumbs over Richie’s cheeks.

Richie pouted, both at the institution of a new rule and by Eddie pulling away. “No one appreciates my Voices.”

“They have no place in my house. Now, come on,” Eddie unbuckled his seatbelt and opened up his door. Richie followed suit, sliding his backpack over one shoulder. “Let me get that,” Eddie said, meeting Richie in front of the Cadillac, one arm coming out to slide the bag over Richie’s arm without waiting for his response.

“Hey, I am perfectly capable of carrying my own bag,” Richie countered, trying to keep his hold on the strap, despite Eddie’s tugging.

“What happened to chivalry being dead?” Eddie said. At last, Eddie pulled the bag from Richie’s grasp. “Aha!” He slung the old rucksack over his shoulder and made his way for the door. “Follow me.” Eddie hit a button near the door, and the garage slid close with a metallic rumble.

Walking into the house, Richie found himself in some kind of mud room. There were coats hanging up on the walls and a (frankly scarily organized) shoe rack next to the door. Eddie pointed to a spot where Richie could toe off his own shoes, babbling on about how unsanitary it was to wear shoes inside the house.

Eddie gave him the grand tour. The mudroom emptied out into the living room, warmly lit by the afternoon sun. Next, Eddie took him to the kitchen, and Richie had to stop himself from salivating over the state-of-the-art oven that Eddie had sheepishly admitted was underutilized. There was a door from the kitchen that opened up the backyard, the grass shaded by a young maple tree.

“Here’s my room,” Eddie said, leading Richie into darkened bedroom. They were on the wrong side of the house to get any natural light. Eddie flipped on the light, illuminating a modestly sized room with a queen-sized bed in the center. Across from the bed was a wooden dresser that matched the stain on the bedframe. There was about a foot of space on either side of the matching nightstands, and sliding mirrored doors along one wall for the closet.

“Pretty small for a master bedroom, and no en suite,” Richie commented, stepping into the room. One of the floorboards squeaked under his weight, Richie flinching back.

Eddie breathed out a small laugh. “This isn’t the master,” he said, gingerly placing Richie’s bag on top of the bureau. “The mattress in there is way too soft, so I sleep in here.”

“Ah,” Richie said, walking around the small space, not quite ready to meet Eddie’s eye. “That must suck when the missus is in town.”

“Nah,” Eddie replied. His all too casual tone making Richie turn around and face him. “Myra and I have slept in separate beds for years now.”

All Richie could manage was a dumb, “huh.”

“She has pretty bad sleep apnea and her CPAP machine would keep me up all night.” Eddie glanced away, laughing humorlessly. “She said that sleeping in separate beds would save our marriage.”

“Yikes.”

Eddie laughed again, this one a little brighter. “Yeah, if she only knew what I got up to in the middle of the night—” he cut himself off, face burning red. “Anyways,” Eddie cleared his throat. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“Sure, but can I shower first?”

“Yeah, of course, let me show you the guest bathroom.”

***

Once Richie had showered off the sweat from the day and changed into something more comfortable, he went in search of Eddie. It wasn’t a very large house, so it wasn’t hard to find the good doctor. He was in the living room, his phone pressed to his ear, engaged in a stilted, half conversation.

Eddie looked up when Richie entered the room, flashing him blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile before his expression darkened. “Yes, dear.” His eyes flicked up to Richie again, mouthing _Myra_. Richie nodded and Eddie smiled at him again. After a moment he pulled the phone away from his face, pressing a hand against the microphone. “This might take a while.”

“I’m gonna look around,” Richie replied, voice dipped low. Eddie looked pained for a moment, but he was distracted by whatever Myra was saying on the other side of the line that he just waved Richie off.

Because they had entered through the garage, Richie hadn’t yet seen the foyer. When Richie wandered over to the front entrance to the house, he had an inkling as to why it wasn’t on the official tour. Hanging on the wall next to the door was a giant portrait of Eddie and a round-faced blonde woman in a wedding dress. Eddie was stone-faced next to her, his black tux wrinkle-free and sharp looking.

“Jesus,” Richie said under his breath. The portrait (which was printed on a canvas and stuck in a gaudy gold frame) was at least three feet tall, and Richie felt dressed down by Myra’s intense gaze.

Richie was so distracted by the photo, that he didn’t hear Eddie finish his call in the other room and come up behind him. “We, uh,” Richie turned around to see Eddie’s abashed expression. “Didn’t bring a lot of stuff with us when we moved, but Myra insisted on packing this up” he nodded up at the portrait, “and shipping it here.”

“Do you ever feel like—”

“She’s watching me? All the fucking time, dude. I only come in and out of the house through the garage if I can help it.”

“I don’t blame you,” Richie said to the portrait, seemingly unable to stop looking at it (though he wasn’t sure if it was in horror or viscous jealousy).

“Come on,” Eddie tugged on his arm, leading him back into the living room.

“What was your call about?” Richie asked trailing after Eddie. The doctor settled on the couch, but Richie took his time studying the art hung up on the walls (did they come with the place, or were they taken from Myra and Eddie’s house on Long Island?) and the tchotchkes on the shelves next to the entertainment center.

“Myra wanted to make sure I watered her plants and I cleaned the grout in my bathroom.” Eddie shrugged, keeping a keen eye on Richie as he wandered around the room.

“Well, for what it’s worth, the shower looked very clean when I was in there. Though, I am legally blind without my glasses.”

“No you aren’t, I know your prescription. And anyways, I, uh,” Eddie blushed again, “cleaned the bathroom yesterday.”

“Oh?” Richie said, delighted.

“Shut up, I wasn’t trying to impress you or anything.” He rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were still stained red. “I was just trying to distract myself.”

“Well that’s awful sweet, Eds.” Eddie scoffed and turned away. Richie went back to his snooping. Along the mantle were a collection of framed photographs. Most of them were of groups of people, except for the photo in the center. It was of an older woman with a familiar round face and beady eyes behind a pair of thick-framed glasses. “Is this your mother-in-law?”

Eddie stood, sidling up to Richie in front of the fireplace. “Uh, no.” There was that adorable blush again. “That’s, uh, my mother.”

Richie looked at the photo and then back at Eddie. “Are you sure? Because she looks awfully like—” The embarrassment on Eddie’s face turned to wrath in an instant. An unbidden laugh bubbled out of his chest. “Oh my god, dude.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie took the photo and turned it around. “You’re so fucking obnoxious.”

“So when you said that Myra seemed _familiar_ , did you know that she was a spitting image of your mother?” Richie laughed, Eddie had already huffed and walked away, falling heavily onto the couch. “Or did you not realize it until later?”

“You’re such a dick.”

“C’mon, Eds,” Richie collapsed onto the couch next to Eddie. “You gotta admit, it’s kinda funny.”

“I don’t know what fucking world you live in, but my internalized homophobia that stems from my mommy issues aren’t funny.” Eddie crossed his arms over his chest and glanced at Richie sidelong. “Jackass,” he added.

Richie may not have known Eddie for very long now, but he felt like he could read the doctor pretty well. He could tell that there was a smile threatening to spread Eddie’s face, and that he was using all of his willpower to fight it.

“It’s a little funny.”

Eddie’s mouth twisted further into a scowl. “No it isn’t.”

“Yeah it is.” Richie leaned onto Eddie, (a kind of intimacy they had never experienced before. It was hard to cuddle up in the front seat of a Cadillac) and said, “even I have enough self-awareness to know that I stayed in a toxic relationship because of my abandonment issues.”

“Bully for you,” Eddie deadpanned.

“Eds,” Richie propped up his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “C’mon. Gimme a smile.”

“What are you?” Eddie snarked, “a middle-aged construction worker catcalling women more than half your age on the street while your wife is at home, washing down a Valium with a glass of white zinfandel?”

“Jesus,” Richie wheezed out through a laugh. “Holy fucking shit.” Laughs were wracking their way through his chest; heaving, honking guffaws that he was sure were terribly unattractive. Eddie didn’t seem to mind, though. After a long few moments, he let out a giggle, and then another; on and on like that until they were falling over each other with laughter.

Once they had caught their breath, (Richie’s face pressed to Eddie’s neck, Eddie’s arm wrapped around Richie’s middle, petting the soft material of the old t-shirt he was wearing) Richie said, “What did I fucking say about you being funnier than me?”

“That I am?” Eddie laughed. His hand trailed up Richie’s side until it was tangled in his hair.

“I mean, that’s technically true.” Richie pressed a soft kiss to the column of Eddie’s throat, the doctor making a soft, surprised noise above him. Eddie tilted Richie’s face up so he could press their lips together.

The kiss was soft and sweet, for the first time they felt like they didn’t have to rush. Eddie stretched out along the couch, pulling Richie with him. He balanced himself on top of the smaller man, Eddie’s arms going up and under Richie’s shirt. Eddie’s callouses scratched against the sensitive skin of Richie’s back. It was a slow, easy kind of intimacy, hands and mouths and soft noises. Everything going kind of hazy around the edges in the fading afternoon light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you on Wednesday for chapter five!
> 
> Pies mentioned in this chapter:  
> [Maggie's Strawberry Oasis Pie](https://www.bingingwithbabish.com/recipes/piesfromwaitress)  
> [Shoofly Pie](https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017018-shoofly-pie)  
> [Peachy Keen Tarts](https://natashaskitchen.com/peach-tartlets-recipe/)  
> [An A-pear to Remember](https://www.sweetandsavorybyshinee.com/pear-tarte-tatin/)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always greatly appreciated ♥️


	5. dreams come and they go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why? You got a bake sale next week, or something?”
> 
> “Ugh, no,” Eddie rolled his eyes. “I just thought,” he sighed, dropping his head into his hands, elbows propped up on the island. “You could teach me how to make a pie?” Eddie collapsed fully on the counter, grumbling incoherently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Just some general warnings for this chapter: Sonia Kaspbrak, mentions of the death of a parent, and discussion of terminal cancers. 
> 
> (Other warnings include: baking-based euphemisms, Richie's low self-esteem, breast exams, _The Oregon Trail_ , quiche, Eddie's resentment of _Grey's Anatomy_ , and an inadvisable amount of carbs)

“What’s for dinner?” Richie asked, reclining languidly on the couch. Eddie had disappeared into his bedroom for a clean pair of pants and underwear a few minutes prior, coming out in a pair of dark jeans. Richie had avoided such a fate, tucking himself back into his jeans, a satisfied expression on his face.

“I thought we could order in?” he said, tugging up his zipper. “I’m not much of a cook,” he added, bashfully. Though, perhaps the blush was a residual flush from their activities earlier.

“You’ve bought me more than enough dinners,” Richie said, sitting up. “Surely you have something here we can throw together.” Eddie’s face twisted in distrust. “Don’t worry, Eds Spagheds, I’ll take the lead." Richie stood and walked into the kitchen, Eddie hot on his heels. “You in the mood for anything in particular?”

Eddie shrugged, “I’m not real picky. Plus, you’re limited by whatever ingredients you can find.”

Richie laughed, getting to work, searching through the pantry and the fridge. Eddie was right, it was slim pickings in the Kaspbrak’s kitchen. There was a good selection of vegetables, cheese, and deli meats, presumably for Eddie’s lunches. After a quick peek in the dry cupboard, there was an unopened bag of flour as well as a jar of active dry yeast.

“What about flatbread pizzas?” Richie asked. “Have you ever made bread before?”

“No,” Eddie said, his tone carefully even. “It won’t use up all the flour, right?”

“Why? You got a bake sale next week, or something?”

“Ugh, no,” Eddie rolled his eyes. “I just thought,” he sighed, dropping his head into his hands, elbows propped up on the island. “You could teach me how to make a pie?” Eddie collapsed fully on the counter, grumbling incoherently.

(For the second time that day, Richie was struck dumb by Eddie Kaspbrak. It really did take a lot to stun Richie into silence, and Eddie seemed to manage on the regular. But that wasn’t really the point. The thing was. The thing was that, in the six years since his dad had died, no one had asked him for a _just_ a pie; without an ulterior motive. And Eddie wanted to make it with him, to spend their limited time together doing something that Richie loved and Eddie had no experience with)

Eddie straightened up, an unsettled expression coloring his features. “Is that okay?” he asked, unsure. Like he hadn’t given Richie something precious.

Instead of answering him, Richie pulled Eddie forward by the front of his shirt for a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

“I guess that answers that,” Eddie laughed, breaking away from Richie’s mouth. “How about we do something simple for dinner, though? It’s no Gino’s, but I can make a mean Italian sub.”

Richie’s mouth twitched into a wide, toothy grin. “You got a deal, Spagheds.”

He dropped a kiss onto Eddie’s forehead and started to portion out the ingredients. Eddie stared at the two sticks of butter and the bowl of sugar on the counter warily. “Maybe I don’t want to know how your pies are made.”

Richie snorted, cutting the cold butter into cubes. “Yeah, it might make you re-think how many times a week you come to Joe’s. Hey, will you fill this with ice water for me?” he held out a measuring cup to Eddie.

“Sure.”

Once the butter was done, Richie added the dry ingredients to a big mixing bowl, whisking them together with a fork. Eddie appeared at his side, ice water in hand. “Do you want to get your hands dirty, or are you just going to watch?”

Eddie huffed out an annoyed breath. “You said you were gonna teach me, right? So get to teaching.”

“Alright then. How about you roll up your sleeves and wash your hands, I’ll show you how to rub in the butter.”

The doctor did as Richie said, looking at Richie skeptically. “Is that some kind of euphemism?”

Richie laughed, giving the dry ingredients one final mix. “I mean, it could be.” He sidled up next to Eddie at the sink, leaning down to press a kiss to the shorter man’s neck. “Oh, baby,” another kiss, “you wanna rub in the butter with me?”

“Ugh, gross,” Eddie said, though he sounded quite flustered.

Richie pressed one last kiss to Eddie’s neck and stepped back with a laugh. “Your hands are clean enough, Doc. This isn’t surgery.”

“You should wash your hands for at least 20 seconds with soap and warm water. Only 5% of people wash their hands properly after using the bathroom. And 15% of men don’t wash their hands at _all_ —”

“Dude, I work in food service. I know how to wash my hands.”

“That doesn’t actually make me feel better.”

Richie sighed. “You’re an uptight little asshole, aren’t you?”

“I have a clinically diagnosed anxiety disorder, dick,” Eddie said, face scrunching up adorably.

With a laugh, Richie shouldered Eddie out of the way of the sink, “I’ll show you that I know how to wash my hands.” He turned on the water and pumped soap into his hand. Under his breath, Richie sang the chorus to “Landslide” by Stevie Nicks as he scrubbed the soap over his hands. Then he rinsed his hands and grabbed a paper towel of the roll next to the sink, using it to turn off the faucet and then dry his hands. “Happy?”

Eddie wrestled a smile off of his face. “I’m satisfied.”

Richie snorted, walking back over to the island. “I think you missed your calling as a health inspector.”

“God, no,” Eddie bemoaned. “That would only make my germaphobia worse.” He joined Richie at the counter, a warm length along Richie’s side. “Okay, I better not regret this, but,” he took a deep breath, “how do you rub in the butter?” Eddie winced as he spoke.

Richie had to fight down a laugh. “It’s kind of exactly what it sounds like.” He dumped the bowl of cubed butter into the dry ingredients. “You just rub the butter into the flour.” Eddie watched the movement of Richie’s hands for a few moments before his hands twitched towards the bowl. “You wanna try?”

Eddie nodded mutely. Richie dusted the butter and flour off of his hands and pushed the bowl towards Eddie. “Go for it, Eds.”

“Not my name,” Eddie huffed, but then got to work. He was hesitant at first, taking one cube of butter in each hand at a time. As time went on, his confidence grew, working the butter through the dry ingredients.

“That’s good,” Richie said after a few minutes. “You want it to resemble breadcrumbs.” He sifted through the mixture, making sure there weren’t any pockets of dry flour or cubes of butter. “Okay, now we add the water.” He poured about a third of cup of water into the bowl. “Mix that through.”

“Why ice water?” Eddie asked.

“It keeps the butter from melting. Some people use half-water, half-vodka for a flakier crust, but this is the way my mom made it, so...” he trailed off, adding another eighth of a cup of water. “That’s enough.” Eddie’s hands froze. “You don’t want to overwork the dough.”

Eddie wiped the remaining dough off of his hands. “Where did your mom learn how to make pie?”

“She got the basics from some cookbook her parents gave her for Christmas or her birthday or something.” Richie separated the dough into two, and lightly dusted the counter with flour. He took one of the halves of dough and placed it on the counter. “But she always enjoyed coming up with her own recipes more than following someone else’s. She liked putting ingredients you wouldn't think would go together, together, just to see what would happen. She had a pretty good track record through, I don't remember a single pie she made that wasn't better than the last.”

“That must be where you get it from," Eddie said as Richie formed the dough into a rough disk shape and then wrapped it in plastic wrap. "It's impressive."

“It’s nothing really.” Richie repeated the same steps on the other half of the pie dough.

“No need to be modest,” Eddie kicked Richie lightly with his bare foot. “Cooking without a recipe is one thing, but _baking_?” Eddie’s foot brushed against Richie’s ankle, lingering for a moment. “That’s a marketable skill.”

“And yet, I’m still making pies at the same diner I started working at when when I was fifteen.” Richie couldn’t keep the spite out of his tone as he put the dough in the fridge to rest.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice soft. He crowded up next to Richie, one arm going around the small of his back and resting on the opposite hip. “This seems like it’s about more than just pie.” Richie laughed humorlessly, Eddie nuzzling closer. “Tell me what’s up.”

(Richie felt safe like this, wrapped up in Eddie’s arms. He could feel Eddie’s heart beating against his back, a steady rhythm)

“I feel like I’m stuck on a fucking treadmill, dude.” Embarrassingly, Richie felt his eyes prick with tears. Still facing away from Eddie, he said, “I just keep running, day in and day out, but I’m not going anywhere. What’s the use of having this marketable skill,” he laughed humorlessly again, “if I’m just gonna die in this town?” Richie’s voice broke at the end, interrupted by a hiccupping sob. 

“Hey, hey,” Eddie said softly. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, face pressed into Richie’s scapula.

(Richie was suddenly struck with a memory; his mother singing softly to him as she wrapped him up in her arms, the two of them snuggled up in his narrow twin bed. _Baby don’t you cry, gonna make a pie, gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle_. Then another, this time in a cold and sterile hospital room. _Baby don’t be blue, gonna make for you, gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle_ )

Richie spun around in Eddie’s arms, bending over to rest his forehead on Eddie’s shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie’s arms tightened around him. “It’s okay.”

They stood like that for probably twenty minutes straight, Eddie holding him without an inch of selfishness to it.

(Perhaps if Richie hadn’t been crying, it would have been perfect)

***

They ate their homemade Italian subs on the couch, one of _The Fast and the Furious_ sequels (Eddie thought it was the fourth one, but Richie was pretty sure it was the fifth. They decided, in the end, that there were way too many _Fast and Furious_ movies and that it didn’t actually matter which one they were watching if they were indistinguishable from each other) playing on the TV.

“What kind of pie are we gonna make?” Eddie asked, carrying Richie’s plate to the sink, and rinsing it.

“Depends on what you have, Spaghetti.” Richie poked through the fridge again, coming up with a bag of high-quality chocolate chips and a couple of punnets of fresh berries. A recipe was taking shape in his head, Richie gathering the other tools and ingredients and piling them on the counter.

“Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie?” Eddie asked.

“Close, but no.” Richie pushed the fruit towards Eddie. “Will you mash those together?”

“Sure. I think there’s a mortar and pestle around here somewhere.”

Eddie went searching through the cabinets as Richie added equal parts of white and brown sugar to a bowl, stirring them together with a fork. After about a minute, Eddie come back to the island. He dumped the berries into the stone bowl, grinding them together.

“You making up this pie on the spot?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Richie hummed.

“Does that mean I’ll get to help name it?”

Richie glanced at the other man sidelong. “I’ll tell you what, you can have final approval.”

Eddie sighed facetiously, “fine.” He flashed Richie a smile. “What’s next?”

“I’m gonna need a pie pan. Help me look for one?” Richie asked, making his way for one of the low cupboards he saw baking dishes in earlier.

“Actually,” Eddie cleared his throat. Richie straightened up. “I have something for you.”

“What?”

“Wait here.” Eddie slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Richie awkwardly hovering between the island and the sink. When Eddie returned, he was holding a wrapped package, one of those plastic ribbon bows stuck on top. “This is, uh,” he glanced away as he handed the gift to Richie, embarrassed, “for you.”

“Oh.” Richie remained frozen.

Eddie looked up; his embarrassment being eclipsed by indignation. “Take the gift, Trashmouth.”

Richie snorted and finally stretched out his arm. The present was heavier than it looked, Eddie squawking in alarm when Richie almost dropped it after misjudging its weight. “Christ, Eds, warn a guy.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, dickwad.”

Richie placed the gift on the counter and began unwrapping it. The paper was that nice brown parcel paper that reminded Richie of Julie Andrews and seven little blonde kids singing in the Austrian Alps. “Nice wrap job,” Richie joked. Because of the awkward shape of the present (round, but with an irregular edge), the bottom was a mess of paper and scotch tape.

“Fuck you,” Eddie said, reaching out for the present. “You don’t deserve nice things.” He tried to tug it out of Richie’s grip, but the taller man held on tight.

“I’m sorry, Eds,” Richie said, finally wrenching the gift away from Eddie. “I promise I’ll be good.”

Eddie leveled him with a significant look, arms crossing over his chest (the sight of his flexing forearms had Richie practically salivating), and said, “I don’t know if I can trust you, Rich. You’ve been _very_ naughty.”

(All the blood in Richie’s body suddenly rushed south, his mouth growing dry)

“Holy shit, dude,” Richie said, voice thin. “You can’t just say that.”

Eddie’s face cracked into a teasing smile. “That’s what you fucking get, Trashmouth. If you can’t handle the heat—”

“Do not finish that sentence. You’re too hot to make a joke that lame.”

“Hm,” Eddie hummed, wrapping his arms around Richie’s middle, pressing his body along Richie’s back. “Thanks, babe,” he kissed Richie’s neck. “Now open your gift.”

At last, Richie unwrapped the present. Inside was a white ceramic fluted pie pan. There was a recipe for pecan pie printed across the bottom of the pan. Richie remembered his mother having a pan like this when he was growing up, though it had a recipe for cherry, rather than pecan, pie inscribed on it.

“Oh. Wow.”

“Do you like it?” Eddie asked, his voice betraying his apprehension.

(There were tears welling in his eyes for the second time that day. Richie couldn’t remember the last time someone had bought him a gift, let alone a gift this thoughtful)

“I saw it at one of those antique shops downtown,” Eddie said, anxiety only growing. His hold on Richie loosened, Eddie taking two steps away. “It reminded me of your pecan pie, which is probably leaps and bounds ahead of that recipe—” he continued to babble on, Richie utterly speechless.

After a minute, Richie thought it was high time to put the doctor out of his misery. Richie turned, one hand reaching out to catch Eddie’s jaw and angle his face up so he could press a kiss to his lips.

Richie leaned back. “It’s amazing, Eds. Thank you.”

“Oh, good,” Eddie replied, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

Richie pulled him in for one last kiss before going to the fridge to pull out one of the chilled disks of pie dough. With a dusting of flour on the counter and the rolling pin he found in one of the drawers, Richie started to flatten out the dough. Eddie insisted on washing the pie pan, drying it off with a clean tea towel and placing it on the bench in front of Richie.

The doctor watched, anxiously, as Richie lifted the sheet of pie dough up and pressed it gently into the pan. “During my brief stint at NYU,” Richie said, carefully cutting off the extra dough hanging off the sides of the pan, “there was a communal kitchen in my building. I spent most of my time that I wasn’t in class in there, baking.”

“Sounds like a good way to make friends.”

“You’d think that, but, uh,” Richie began pressing the edge of the crust into the fluted edges. He usually had to hand-crimp the crust on his pies, and a fluted pan was a real luxury. “My roommates hated me, and so did most of my classmates. I was unbelievably lonely.” He poured the sugar mixture into the bottom of the pan, spreading it out into an even layer. “When my dad got sick, it was an easy choice to move back home.”

“God, I probably would have moved back in with my mother if I hadn't gotten along with my roommate freshman year. We didn’t really hang out at first, not for lack of trying on his part. He always invited me to games and parties with him and his friends, but it wasn’t until spring semester that I finally took him up on the offer.”

Eddie continued on as Richie started working on the filling, pouring the bag of chocolate chips into a saucepan on the stove to melt. “Suddenly I had this whole group of people to hang out with. I wasn’t super close with everyone, but they liked me. And that was its own kind of miracle.” Eddie laughed humorlessly, “god, that sounds sad. But it’s true. Don was the reason I applied to med school at Columbia. He convinced me that I was good enough to get in.”

“Wow, Spagheds, I didn’t know you were an Ivy-Leaguer,” Richie grinned at him, stirring cream into the melted chocolate.

“Can it, Trashmouth,” Eddie huffed. He relaxed into Richie’s side again, a warm weight at his side. “I wasn’t trying to show off, I just wanted you to know that I felt the same way you did." He paused, thinking, "in a city of 18 million people, it’s pretty easy to feel alone.”

Richie turned off the stove, grabbing the pan of chocolate and carrying it to the island. He poured the mixture into the pie shell, using a spatula to scrape every last ounce of the chocolate form the pan. “How about this for a name,” he used the spatula to even out the filling. “Lonely Manhattan Pie?”

Eddie pressed a kiss to Richie’s neck, arms twining around his waist. “Sounds perfect.” He let go of Richie, but didn’t go far. Eddie stood next to him; their bodies pressed together from hip to ankle. “Now the fruit?”

“Now the fruit. Do you want to do the honors?”

“Sure.” Eddie took the bowl of mashed berries and poured them over the top of the chocolate. He was careful to spread the fruit out evenly, Richie only needing to coax the mixture to the edge of the circle before it was ready to go into the oven.

“It’ll need about 45 minutes to bake and probably two hours to cool.” Richie carefully slid the pie into the preheated oven and closed the door.

“Huh,” Eddie said, a smile in his voice. Richie turned to look at him, his breath catching in his throat. Eddie was leaning against the island, his head tilted down so he could peer up at Richie through his dark eyelashes. “How _ever_ will we pass the time?”

***

After 45 minutes in the oven (and then another two hours in the fridge) Richie was blissed out and delightfully jelly legged. “You’re such a fuckin’ liar,” he said, spread-eagled across Eddie’s bed.

“What are you talking about?” Eddie said, kicking the bedroom door closed behind him. He had graciously offered to go out into the kitchen and plate them up a couple slices of pie, ( _we gonna share a piece like a couple of kids going steady, Eds?_ _I’d rather lick the bathroom floor at Vinny’s than share my pie with you, Richie_ ) bringing them back to be eaten in bed.

“ _I’ve never had sex with a man_ , he said” Richie took one of the plates from Eddie, the other man climbing into bed. “Like you didn’t just make me cum my brains out.”

Eddie made a face, “gross. And I’ve had sex with women, the mechanics are basically the same.”

“Bullshit. There’s no way you’ve ever had sex like that with a woman.”

The doctor shifted next to him, “well, I did a lot of research,” he said at last.

“Oh, yeah?” Richie teased. “All alone, late at night, with your wife in the other room?”

Eddie blushed up to his hairline. “Fuck you, dude.”

“Again? I might need a few more minutes, I can’t quite feel my legs yet.”

Eddie’s expression went from embarrassed to furious in the blink of an eye. “You know that thing I did? The one you really liked?” (Eddie had done lots of things to him that Richie had really, _really_ liked) “I will never do that again. Never,” he emphasized, Richie watching on in horror, “Again.”

Richie mimed zipping up his lips and throwing away the key. Eddie seemed marginally pleased by that, leaning over to give him a chaste peck on the mouth. “Good. Now it’s pie time.”

“High time for pie time,” Richie said. After a moment he winced. “Sorry. That was bad. I think you melted my brain, dude.”

“You said it not me,” Eddie shrugged, using his fork to cut off the pointed tip of the pie into a generously sized bite. “Cheers,” he said, holding the fork aloft.

Richie scrambled to get a piece of pie on his own fork, tapping against Eddie’s. “Cheers, Eds.”

The doctor immediately popped the fork into his mouth, like he had been waiting all night to take a bite. Richie watched Eddie, his own fork hovering in the air in front of his mouth, on fucking tenterhooks.

Eddie’s face was unreadable for a moment before shifting into undeniable pleasure. “Holy shit, Rich,” he said, cutting off another bite and shoveling it into his mouth. “Holy shit,” Eddie repeated, mouth full.

“Good?” Richie finally took a bite. The sugar mixture at the bottom melted into a kind of caramel which paired well with the bitter dark chocolate and tart berries. As far as pies of his own invention went, this was one of Richie’s favorites.

“Good?” Eddie said. “ _Good?_ It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever eaten, Richie.” He set the pie to the side, taking Richie’s face in his hands and looking him dead in the eye. “You have to make this pie for the contest.”

Richie couldn’t quite meet Eddie’s eye, as uncomfortable with compliments as ever. “Thanks, Eds. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eddie sighed, pressing a kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth. “We’ll work on your self-esteem later. Right now, I have more pie to eat.”

Richie watched him, a dopey little smile on his face.

(Perhaps in a city of 18 million people, you only need one person to not feel so alone)

***

Eddie insisted on being the big spoon, cuddling up behind Richie like a backpack with a resting heartrate of 85 BPM. Not that Richie minded being the little spoon, there was something quite comforting about being held.

(Connor didn’t like cuddling after sex, let alone hours later after eating pie in bed and brushing their teeth while standing next to each other at the bathroom sink, elbows knocking together)

Richie wasn’t quite sure what time it was; Eddie had light-filtering curtains that he had pulled shut not long after he had dragged Richie into his room and bodily pushed him on to the bed (very hot, 10/10 experience, would recommend to a friend). After a long morning at the diner, blood thrumming with anticipation for this weekend, and then a long afternoon spent as the sole object of Eddie Kaspbrak’s attention (not to mention all of the sex), Richie was exhausted. Eddie on the other hand—

“Dude, are you giving me a breast exam right now?” Richie asked, trying to peer over his shoulder.

(Eddie’s hands had been roving around and exploring for quite some time now. Tracing the dusting of dark hair down his chest and onto his stomach. Poking and squeezing at Richie’s love handles. Splaying across his stomach to feel Richie's breathing. It was nice until he had started groping at Richie’s pecs with a little too practiced of movements)

“No,” Eddie said, after a few beats, face pressed into Richie’s back. He didn’t sound very convincing to Richie’s ears, and Eddie knew that. “You have a high risk for breast cancer, Richie. You should be getting regular breast exams,” he said petulantly.

“I know. And _you_ know when my last breast exam was because you gave it to me.”

“Shut up.” Eddie pinched Richie’s side, the latter squawking indignantly. He soothed the spot with his hand, Richie relaxing back into Eddie’s chest. “I worry about you.”

Richie rolled over, finding Eddie’s face in the dark. “What? Why?”

Eddie scooted up the bed, bringing their faces level. He cupped Richie’s face by both cheeks. “Because you have a gene mutation that increases the risk of you getting several different types of life-threatening cancers.”

“Aren’t all types of cancer life-threatening—ow!” Eddie pinched Richie’s side again.

“This isn’t a joking matter, Richie. Breast cancer is serious shit. And it’s not just breast cancer, it’s prostate cancer and melanoma. There’s even been studies that show link mutations in the BRCA genes to increased risks of stomach, pancreatic, thyroid—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Richie said, cutting Eddie off from his panic spiral. “I know,” he tried to sound as serious as possible. “I went through all the genetic counseling when I got the test.”

“That was _twelve_ years ago, Richie. There’s been more research done since then—”

“It’s okay, Eds. I’m okay. You did all my tests, right? You reviewed my blood panels like four times. More than anyone, you should know that I’m okay.”

Eddie’s voice was thick and wobbly when he replied. “I can’t protect you from all of this, Richie. I’m not even your doctor anymore, so I can’t even be sure that we’d catch it early—” Eddie’s voice broke, his body shuddering with a sob.

“Shh, shh,” Richie tightened his arms around Eddie, tucking the smaller man’s head under his chin. “It’s okay, Eds. I’m okay,” he murmured, rubbing Eddie’s back in small, slow circles. The doctor was still shaking with sobs, tears dampening Richie’s chest. 

A long time later, Eddie pulled away. He had calmed down significantly, though his face was tearstained. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Eddie wiped at his face. “Yes I do.”

“It’s fine, Eddie. You care about me, it’s sweet.”

“No it’s not,” Eddie sniffed. “It’s fuckin’ manipulative.” He sat up, turning away from Richie. “Whatever, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Richie wanted to reach out and touch Eddie, to smooth the tension out of his back and press a kiss to the junction of his neck and his shoulder, but he remained frozen where Eddie had left him.

“Well, if you ever do want to talk about it...” Richie brushed his hand against Eddie’s in the dark, “I’m all ears.”

He sighed, leaning backwards until he was laying half on top of Richie. “I donʻt,” he paused, searching for something to say. Richie carded a hand through Eddie’s hair, the other man relaxing at the touch. “I don’t want to ruin a perfect day like this with all my baggage.”

Richie grinned up at the ceiling, wide and absolutely smitten since there was no one to make fun of him for it. “Perfect, huh?”

Eddie snorted, still sounding a little watery. “Of course that’s what you got out of that.”

“Hey, either I have low self-esteem or an inflated sense of self-worth.”

“I’d rather you have a healthy amount of self-appreciation.”

“Ooh, baby, I get a lotta self-appreciation if ya know what I mean,” Richie jeered.

“That’s really sad, Richie,” Eddie deadpanned, but Richie could feel his ribs shaking with laughter.

Richie sat up a little, his hand still carding through Eddie’s soft hair. He watched the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest, studied the pensive expression on his face. After a few moments, Eddie peered up at him, brown eyes Bambi-er than ever. His dark brows furrowed, disturbing Eddie’s peaceful expression. “What are you lookin’ at?”

“You,” Richie replied, all too fond.

“Nothing much then,” Eddie joked, smiling cheekily.

“I don’t know Eds,” Eddie’s nose wrinkled, “I think I could find the whole meaning of life in those sad eyes.”

Eddie sat up, huffing incredulously. “Are you high? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Richie shrugged. “They’re very expressive.”

“No they’re not.”

(Eddie’s indignation was adorable, like a 4-year-old throwing a tantrum. For the millionth time, Richie wondered what it would have been like to grow up with Eddie, to see how that haughty indignation had only grown with age. He was pretty sure that he would have had just as much, if not more, fun driving Eddie crazy back then as he did now)

“You don’t look at yourself all the time, Eduardo. Trust me, your Bambi eyes are _very_ expressive.” Richie traced Eddie’s defined brow line, then the delicate skin under his eye with the pad of his thumb. “They’re full of stories, just begging to be told.”

"I'll tell you my baggage if you tell me yours," Eddie offered.

Richie chuckled, "I think you already know about all of my baggage, Eds. I'm an open fuckin' book."

"That's not true." Eddie leaned his head against Richie's chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. "Tell me something you've never told anyone."

Richie traced a finger up Eddie's arm, goosebumps rising to the surface. "I never came out to my dad," he said at last. "He knew I was gay, but I was too scared to ever say the words. But he used to ask _is there anyone special in your life?_ and say stuff like _when you find someone and settle down_..." Eddie placed a hand on Richie's side, tracing up and down the line of his waist. "Even when he was dying, I couldn't make myself say it, or even thank him for being so accepting. It's my biggest regret."

"I think I would've really liked your dad."

Richie smiled despite the tears pricking at his eyes. "I think he would have liked you, too, Eds."

Eddie sat up, expression skeptical. "I doubt that, I am what most people would call an _acquired taste_."

"I quite like the way you taste," Richie joked, Eddie frowning. "C'mon Eds, it's your turn. Tell me all your secrets," Richie said against the delicate skin behind Eddie's ear.

Eddie sighed, at once world-weary and content. “My dad died when I was really young. I don’t really remember him. He was allergic to peanuts and he ate something that was cooked in peanut oil while he was at a restaurant.” Eddie turned away again, but he remained close to Richie. The taller man wrapped his arms around Eddie’s middle, the doctor relaxing back onto him. “They didn’t properly denote which dishes were cooked with peanut oil and,” Eddie sighed, “he was dead 20 minutes later.”

“Eds—”

“Let me keep going. If I stop now...” he took a cleansing breath. Richie took his hand, twining their fingers together and squeezing them in silent support. “We got a lot of money from a wrongful death suit. Like a lot,” he laughed humorlessly, “but my mom was distraught. Of course she was, her husband died right in front of her.”

Eddie tipped his head back against Richie’s shoulder. For a few moments, they just sat in silence together. “The grief made her crazy. Like, clinically disturbed. Not that she ever went to therapy.” He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “She had convinced me that I had all of these allergies and that I was sick all the time. She made me completely dependent on her. And she did it all by lying to me.

“I was terrified of everything. Going into anaphylactic shock. Contracting pneumonia, or, or fucking, I don’t know,” he sighed again, world-weary, “fuckin’ dysentery.” Richie hummed a few bars of _The Oregon Trail_ theme to the best of his memory. Eddie turned; face drawn up in confusion. “Is that?” he asked, not bothering to finish the question when he saw the shit-eating grin on Richie’s face. “Of course you remember the theme music you fucking nerd.”

Richie laughed (how could he not? Eddie made him feel like fireworks on the fourth of July, shooting sparks across the sky), squeezing Eddie around the middle. “Go on.”

Eddie melted into Richie’s embrace. “I lived in fear of the whole world, of everything except my mother. And she was the one I should have been afraid of.” There were a tense few moments in which Richie had to physically restrain himself from speaking. “It’s no fucking wonder that I basically married my mother.”

“Is Myra like your mom in more than just her looks?” Richie asked.

“No? Yes?” he sighed again (Richie wondered if he should be worried about carbon dioxide poisoning from all this heavy exhaling). “I told the whole story to my therapist a few months ago and she said that what my mom did was abuse. And Myra hasn’t done anything to that extent, but,” Eddie traced the dark hair on Richie’s arm, “she didn’t think my mom was wrong.”

Richie just wanted to squeeze Eddie tighter, to carve a space for him between his lungs and right next to his heart. It’s not like Richie needed those organs anyways. He just wanted to keep Eddie somewhere he would be safe—

(But that was the problem wasn’t it? Eddie didn’t need to be coddled. Not now, and not when he was a kid. He was strong enough to stand on his own. He always was)

Rather than try and fit Eddie between his ribs, Richie relaxed his hold on Eddie’s torso marginally, feeling the way his stomach was rising and falling as he breathed.

“Your BRCA status terrifies me, Richie” Eddie said, now playing with the fingers on Richie’s left hand. “But I don’t want to be like my mother. I don’t want to be ruled by fear. And you don’t deserve to be with someone who is.”

“You’re braver than you think,” Richie said, weaving their fingers together and squeezing Eddie’s hand.

Eddie twisted around, their bare chests pressing together in the dark. “I want to be better. And not just for you, but for past me too.”

(Richie felt like his heart was going to crack out of his chest)

“Eddie, I, I,” the words were at the tip of his tongue, weighing heavy on his conscience. But he hand never said them before, at least not in this context. “You have to know I—"

“Shh,” Eddie said, callused hands cupping Richie’s cheeks and stroking them gently. “I know.”

“Eddie, _please_. Let me—”

Eddie tugged him close, pressing their lips together. When he pulled away, his expression was guarded and unreadable. “I _know_ , Richie. You have to know that I know. But if you say it, I...” he trailed off, looking away from Richie. After a few long moments, Eddie’s eyes found Richie’s again. “Not yet, okay?”

(Richie’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest, the words feeling heavy in his throat)

“Okay,” Richie said at last.

Eddie kissed him again, pressing Richie into the mattress; Richie following him down, down, down.

***

“Why are you making that face?” Richie asked, pouring the quiche filling (eggs, milk, goat cheese, caramelized onions, and cubes of thick-cut bacon) into the prepared pie shell.

“You’re using up all my pie dough to make quiche,” Eddie replied, frowning over his mug of herbal tea.

Richie snorted. “ _Your_ pie dough?” He scraped the inside of the bowl with a spatula to get all the filling out.

“I bought the ingredients,” he said haughtily. “And I rubbed in the butter,” Eddie rolled his eyes at Richie’s jeers. “Also it’s my house. Ergo—”

“ _Ergo_?” Richie laughed. “You’re so pretentious, dude.”

“It’s my pie dough,” Eddie continued, ignoring Richie’s teasing.

“I’m making _you_ a pie,” Richie gestured to the quiche on the counter. “Be grateful.”

“It’s a quiche.”

“Quiche is a type of pie!” Behind him, the oven beeped, coming up to temperature. Richie turned and opened the oven door, sliding the quiche in. “Also,” he said, “there’s still half a pie left in the fridge.”

Eddie put his mug down, the ceramic clinking on the granite. “It’s not enough.”

“Well golly me—”

“What did I say about the Voices, asshole?” Eddie snapped, cheeks coloring.

Richie breathed out a laugh through his nose. He circled the island, coming to wrap his arms around Eddie’s middle. “I’ll make you a deal, Eds,” Eddie relaxed into Richie’s embrace, a smile curving at Richie’s mouth, “if you don’t like the quiche, I’ll make you another pie.” Richie leaned down to press a kiss to Eddie’s sleep-warmed neck.

“You got a deal, Tozier.”

(In the end, Eddie loved the quiche, eating two hearty slices, and ignoring Richie’s self-satisfied smile from across the room)

***

On Saturday evening, the two of them were cuddled up on the couch watching old re-runs of _Felicity_. Richie reveled in the way he could feel the other man breathe and laugh from Eddie's position on top of him.

They had spent the better part of the afternoon walking around downtown Derry. Eddie had somehow convinced him to eat lunch at Oh Kale Yeah! to make up for all the butter and sugar they had eaten in the last 24 hours. The June sunshine had zapped them of most of their energy, and after a dinner of leftover quiche and a slice of pie each (Eddie carefully portioning out the Lonely Manhattan Pie, not for the sake of their health but because he wanted to make the pie last as long as possible), they had retired on to the couch for the evening.

“Do you miss New York?” Richie asked him, trailing a gentle hand up and down Eddie’s back.

“Sort of,” Eddie said. “I miss living in a city, but I don't actually like living in New York.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dirty and loud and full of tourists and the traffic is terrible. Also I fucking hate the snow.”

“Well that’s like 90% of what New York is known for. The other 10% is pizza.”

Eddie laughed, the sound vibrating though his chest. “Yeah, I wasn’t excited to move to Derry, but it’s been nice to get away.”

“Where,” Richie paused, turning over the words in his head, “would you live if you could go anywhere?”

Eddie hummed thoughtfully. “Someplace warmer, for sure.” He yawned, his left hand trailing up Richie’s side under his shirt.

“Los Angeles?” Richie supplied.

He could feel Eddie’s face draw up, “nah.” He shifted on Richie’s chest; eyes still glued to the TV. “I think I’d like San Francisco, though.”

Richie laughed, “I should’ve known.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Eddie tried to pull away, but Richie tightened his arms around his middle. After a moment, Eddie stopped fighting, relaxing against Richie’s chest.

“Because you’re a New Gay.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie propped his chin up on Richie’s chest, his eyes narrowing in indignation, “I’ve been gay for 32 years.”

“And for the last ten of them you’ve been married to a woman.”

Eddie pouted, expressive brows furrowing and doe-eyes widening. “You can’t blame me for compulsory heterosexuality, dude.”

Richie sat up, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “You’re adorable.” Richie pulled back. “I think I’d like San Francisco, too.”

“I went once a few years ago for a medical conference,” Eddie said. “With Don, Adrian, and Kay.”

“Who?”

Eddie reached for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling for a few moments. At last, he held the phone out towards Richie. There was a picture of four people on the screen, all of them dressed in white lab coats and smiling broadly. Richie only recognized Eddie in the photo.

“That’s my freshman roommate Don and his husband Adrian,” Eddie pointed to the two other men in the photo. “Though, they were only dating at the time. And that’s Kay,” he pointed to a dark-skinned woman with close-cropped black curls. He tossed his phone away after Richie looked his fill, “we were in the same cohort at Columbia, and I’m pretty sure I thought that if I was friends with the queerest people in our class no one would think that I was gay. Hiding in plain sight,” he joked lamely. “I wouldn’t have survived med school without them.”

“Are they your _people_?” Richie joked.

“What?” Eddie’s brows furrowed adorably. After a few moments, he said, “oh fuck, are you making a _Grey’s Anatomy_ reference? Do you know how inaccurate that show is? I don’t know how those assholes aren’t hit with malpractice lawsuits on the fucking daily,” Eddie ranted.

Eddie relaxed into Richie’s cushioned chest, but he didn’t stop bitching about Hollywood’s portrayal of the medical field. Richie’s eyes dipped closed, not quite hearing the words, but being lulled by the cadence of Eddie’s voice, nonetheless.

***

Eddie dropped Richie off at Joe’s early in the afternoon on Sunday. Richie usually went into the diner in the morning on Sundays to prepare the pies for the week, but he had trouble getting out of bed. Trouble was sitting in the driver’s seat of Eddie’s Cadillac, humming along to the radio under his breath.

Richie couldn’t have stopped looking at Eddie if he tried, he was fucking magnetic in the June sunshine, jauntily tapping his hands on the steering wheel along to the beat of the music. He was delighted to learn that Eddie freckled in the summer, and after their long day outside on Saturday, adorable little brown spots had popped up across his nose and cheeks.

Eddie had, of course, bitched about it that night, poking at his red cheeks as he stared himself down in the mirror while Richie brushed his teeth (for two minutes, with a soft-bristled brush. Went would have been proud) next to him. “I should have re-applied when we got lunch,” he turned to look at Richie, “you too. You’re pink.” Eddie poked at the soft part of Richie’s cheek, a little bit of toothpaste dribbling out of the opposite side of his mouth. “Gross.”

“ _Ou_ oked _ee_ ,” Richie said around his toothbrush. He bent over to spit into the basin, filling his cupped hands with water to rinse out his mouth.

“You’re still gross,” Eddie had said, smiling like he didn’t mean it.

Richie rolled his eyes, a little bit delighted by Eddie’s expression, while he rinsed his toothbrush, popping it into the holder next to the tap. There was something thrilling about seeing his toothbrush cozying up next to Eddie’s.

Sunday was a bittersweet morning, Eddie waking him up while he trailed kisses down Richie’s chest and stomach. Richie had tried to repay the favor, but Eddie had just flipped him over instead, working Richie back up into a panting, moaning mess.

(Richie was sad to bid their little love nest goodbye, even giving the portrait of Myra and Eddie a farewell while Eddie was in the shower)

Eddie had insisted on carrying Richie’s bag out of the house, carefully stowing it in the backseat like it wasn’t a decade old Jansport with Paramore lyrics written on the inside of the straps because Richie was a well-adjusted teenager. He pulled into the employee parking lot behind Joe’s, but Richie didn’t move to get out of the car right away. “When can I see you again?” he asked, bolstered by a confidence he didn’t quite feel worthy of.

As a reward for his forwardness, Eddie blushed and looked down. “I don’t know. Myra’s coming back for a few days, it might be hard to get away—” Richie could feel a leering smile curving at his lips, Eddie catching a glimpse of the expression out of the corner of his eye. “Beep-beep,” he said prematurely.

Richie reached over to twine their fingers together over the gear shift. “I’ll miss you.”

Eddie blushed deeper, but he smiled and caught Richie’s eye. “I’ll miss you too, Trashmouth.” His eyes flicked down to Richie’s lips, but he didn’t lean in to press their lips together. They had already kissed goodbye in the privacy of Eddie’s garage, but it didn’t feel like enough to Richie.

It felt like he could never get enough of Eddie Kaspbrak. 

“I should go,” Richie jerked his head toward the diner, but he didn’t let go of Eddie’s hands or move to get out of the car.

“You should,” Eddie replied, a crooked smirk pulling at his lips.

“Okay.” Richie remained frozen in his seat. “I’m going.”

“Uh huh.”

Richie leaned over the center console to press a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kiss to Eddie’s freckled cheek. He unwound their hands and pulled away. “Bye, Eds.”

Eddie blinked at him mutely, dark lashes fluttering. Richie grabbed his bag out of the backseat and opened his door. “Bye, Rich,” he said, voice tight as Richie climbed out of the car.

Richie could spend the rest of his day saying goodbye to Eddie, not unlike if they were high school sweethearts saying _no, you hang up_ back and forth until they fell asleep. So with the last little bit of his remaining resolve, Richie closed the door and made his way into the diner.

***

Connor’s truck was in the driveway when Richie returned from work on Monday afternoon. Richie felt himself stiffen at the sight of the car, not moving to unbuckle or get out. From the driver’s seat, Bev grew quiet. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s just that,” Richie felt like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He looked down at the takeout box in his lap (the last slice of today’s special, Dirty Deeds Mississippi Mud Pie), fidgeting with the cardboard. “The last couple of days felt like a dream, and now I have to wake up.”

“Honey,” Bev sighed. “Why don’t you just leave?”

(Bev had never asked him that before, the last of his friends to just come out and say it. He expected it to hurt more coming from her, but Richie felt a cold numbness in his chest at the question)

“I don’t know. At this point I think I’m just worried about what’s going to happen when I tell him that I’m done.”

“We should’ve moved you out this weekend,” Bev joked humorlessly.

“Nah, I wouldn’t have given up this weekend for the world,” Richie couldn’t help the unbidden smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth.

“That good, huh?” Bev teased.

“Oh my god,” Richie intoned. “Bev, I think I saw God.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“It was a turtle, but yeah.” Richie leaned back against the headrest. “I don’t want to go in there.”

“You don’t have to.”

(Richie thought about the boxes of his dad’s old records and the closet full of Went’s old clothes in Richie’s old room. It broke his heart to think of just leaving them all behind, even if it meant going inside to Connor)

“I think I do.”

Bev reached over to squeeze his hand. “I’m going to worry about you when I’m gone, Rich.”

“You don’t need to Bevvy,” she made a skeptical sound, Richie chuckling. “I mean it. I've got good things going for me right now," he joked, thinking of Eddie's bedhead (and also Eddie giving him head in bed). Bev still didn't look convinced. "I want to get out of there as much as you do.”

“Isn’t he doing some battle of the bands thing in July?”

“Yeah, on the Fourth.”

“Why don’t you leave then?”

It wasn’t a terrible idea. “Where would I even go?”

“Well,” a satisfied smile tugged at Bev’s rosebud mouth. “My apartment will be vacated on the 29th.”

“Huh,” Richie sat up a little straighter. “I have been tucking away some of my tip money, it should be enough to cover first and last month’s rent plus the safety deposit.”

“Jesus, how much money do you have saved?”

“Uh, almost two grand?” Richie replied, suddenly embarrassed.

“Holy shit,” Bev’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. “What the hell were you even saving for, Richie?”

“I don’t know! I guess I, I,” Richie floundered, “thought I might need it to run away some day.”

“Well, someday is now.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Richie turned to look at Connor’s car again. This time the truck didn’t fill him with dread, just annoyance. “I should probably go.”

Bev looked less anxious as well when he looked back over at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early. Bye, Bev,” he wrapped an arm around her in an awkward side-hug.

She laughed, pushing him away and leaning over his lap to open his door. “Bye, Trashmouth.”

Richie clambered out of the little blue car, and shutting the door behind him. Bev peeled away from the curb as Richie checked the mailbox, waving as she drove away. Inside, there were a couple of pieces of junk mail and Connor’s unemployment check. Richie ditched the junk mail in the recycling bin outside the house before making his way inside.

The front door was unlocked, but as Richie pushed it open it was blocked by something. Richie was able to kick it out of the way and stumble inside. It was Connor’s duffle bag that had gotten half-wedged under the door when Richie tried to open it. With a calming breath, Richie made his way into the rest of the house.

Yesterday when he had gotten back from the diner, Richie had first taken a shower (he missed the high-efficiency shower head and fancy bodywash that Eddie kept in his bathroom) before cleaning the house. Connor, ever the procrastinator, had waited till the last minute to pack, and his clothes were all over their bedroom. Richie had graciously thrown them in the wash with his clothes, even folding Connor’s and leaving them in a basket on their bed.

The living room had also been a mess, half-crumpled PBR cans and dirty plates as far as the eye could see. Richie had picked up the trash and done the dishes, relaxing into their old couch to watch _The Great British Bake Off_ uninterrupted.

Walking into the living room today, Richie was convinced that he had hallucinated all those hours of work. Connor couldn’t have been home for more than an hour and a half (knowing how long he liked to sleep in and how long it took to drive from Portland to Derry) but there were also half a dozen open cans of PBR on the coffee table as well as an assortment of clothes strewn across the floor.

“Hey, babe,” Connor said casually, drinking out of a seventh can of beer. He was watching a Red Sox game, eyes glued to the TV.

“Hey,” Richie somehow kept the contempt out of his voice. “How was your weekend?”

“Fine,” the game cut to commercial, Connor turning to look at him. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Richie deadpanned.

Connor snorted, taking another swig of beer. “What’s for dinner?”

Richie sighed heavily, Connor remaining oblivious to his annoyance. “I don’t know dude, I literally just walked in the door.”

“Well I’m up for anything.”

“Good to know.”

Richie stowed his pie in the fridge, sifting through it in an attempt to finding something to make a meal out of. When the fridge proved useless, Richie moved on to the freezer. In the very back, Richie found a package of Italian sausage and a box of Texas Toast. A smirk formed at his mouth as an idea formed in his head.

As the oven pre-heated, Richie diced half an onion and a couple of cloves of garlic, tossing them into a skillet with oil. After sweating out the vegetables, Richie added the sausage, squeezing it out from the casing. Once the meat was cooked, he poured in a whole jar of tomato sauce. When the oven had come up to temperature, Richie laid out a few slices of Texas Toast along the bottom of a pie dish. He put the bread in the oven and turned back to his sauce.

They only had linguine in terms of pasta, so it would have to do. Richie salted a pot of water on the stove, and once it came up to a boil, he added the pasta. Luckily, all the separate elements were ready at the same time; the oven beeping, the sauce simmering, and the pasta draining all at once. Richie added the pasta to the pie dish, ladling sauce over it, and topping it with cheese before sticking the whole thing in the oven.

It didn’t take much longer to cook in the oven, Richie pulling out a golden-brown spaghetti pie fifteen minutes later. Connor was still engrossed in the game when their dinner was ready, so Richie was able to snap a photo of his masterpiece unnoticed. He sent the picture to Eddie, smiling as he typed out a message to go along with it.

 _look what i made for dinner. i dub it the Eddie Spaghetti Spaghetti Pie_ 🍝🍝🍝

“Dinner’s ready,” Richie called, slicing the pie into eighths and serving up a piece for himself.

Connor didn’t get up to grab a plate until there was another commercial break. “Thanks, babe,” he said through a bite.

“No problem,” Richie said, digging in.

***

Eddie still hadn’t replied by the next afternoon, not that Richie was surprised. He was, however, lonely and wanted attention. So he sent another text on his lunch break.

 _i’ll have to make it for you the next time i come over_ 😏

There wasn’t a response by the time Richie went back on the floor, tucking his phone back into his apron.

It was a pretty busy day, the special pie (Maine Squeeze Orange Custard Pie) selling out long before Richie’s shift was over. It was a shame, really, Eddie had been the one to request it and he had been looking forward to bringing a slice by the Derry Medical Complex later.

Richie was getting ready to clock out for the day, clearing the last of his tables, when Stan and Patty came in.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Blum-Urises. I’m almost off the clock, but I can get you guys a table,” Richie said, grabbing a pair of menus.

“We’re not here to eat,” Patty said carefully. Her expression was unreadable, which unsettled Richie; she was usually a pretty open book. “We just came to check up on you.”

“How you doing, Rich?” Stan asked, his expression equally concerning.

“I’m doing alright,” Richie said, apprehensive. “My feet kind of hurt, but that’s par for the course.”

Stan and Patty looked at each other, confused. That made three of them.

“What’s going on here?” Richie asked.

“Do you not—” Patty started, looking to Stan before turning back to Richie. “Eddie left.”

“What?”

“He took a personal day yesterday and emailed Keene a letter tending his immediate resignation this morning."

“What?” Richie said again. It was the only thing he could say, really.

“I don’t know what happened, but he’s gone.”

“That can’t be. I—" Richie pulled his phone out of his apron. Still no text from Eddie. He unlocked his phone and dialed Eddie’s number, the call ringing and ringing until it went to voicemail. “Eds. Hi. It’s me, uh, Richie,” he raked a hand through his hair. “Patty said something about you quitting?” Richie’s voice pitched higher than he thought possible. He felt hysterical. Completely and utterly bamboozled.

“What’s going on? Are you—” he stopped himself, taking a deep breath. “Just call me, okay? Or text me. Whatever. I just need to hear from you. I’m worried. Okay,” Richie looked up to see Stan and Patty watching him with concern. “Bye, Eds.”

“He really didn’t tell you he was leaving?” Stan asked.

“No, I,” Richie felt tears prick at his eyes. “I didn’t know.” He checked the clock on the wall, his shift was over. “I’m about to clock out, but will you give me a ride? I want to go by his place.”

“Of course,” Patty said. “We’ll wait here.”

Richie nodded, unable of saying anything else before heading back into the kitchen. He clocked out and hung up his apron, tossing his bag over his shoulder. He barely managed to say goodbye to his friends, rushing out to the front of the diner. “Let’s go,” he told Stan and Patty, leading them out to the Stan’s sensible silver sedan in the parking lot.

Patty let Richie sit up front, on account of his long legs. The radio was turned down low, a hum of noise that only stressed Richie out further. He hit the button to turn the radio off, Stan making a disgruntled sound, but he didn’t turn it back on. Richie assumed that this was more due to Patty kicking the back of his seat than for Richie’s benefit.

Richie gave Stan the directions to Eddie’s rental, the knot in his chest tightening with every half mile. When Stan pulls up in front of the white-shuttered cottage, Richie felt like his heart was going to leap out of his throat. “Wait here,” he says, voice tight.

He climbed out of the car and made the trek up the front walk. Richie knocked on the red door, doing everything in his power not to knock the whole damn thing down. There wasn’t an answer, but he could hear the sound of voices inside, so Richie knocked again.

At last, the door swung open, revealing a young woman with strawberry blonde hair on the other side. Richie didn’t recognize her. “Uh, hi,” he said awkwardly. “I’m looking for Eddie. Or, uh, Dr. Kaspbrak?”

The woman’s face twisted up in confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. We’re just here to clean.”

“To clean?” Richie asked. He looked down at the woman’s shirt. It was a light blue polo with _Ripsom Cleaners_ stitched in pink thread on the left side of her chest. “I don’t understand—” Richie looked behind her, trying to get a glimpse of Eddie or even Myra. What caught his eye instead, was the blank wall in the foyer.

The portrait of Eddie and Myra was gone.

“I’m sorry,” Richie said, voice quivering. “I’m just going to go. Sorry,” he said again, backing away.

The woman looked confused, but she shut the door, leaving Richie all alone on the front porch.

In a daze, Richie walked back to Stan’s car. He opened the door and slid back into his seat, not looking at his friends.

“Who answered the door?” Stan asked.

“Someone from a cleaning service.”

“Cleaning service?” Patty said, “but why—”

“They’re gone,” Richie cut in, voice breaking. “ _He’s_ gone.” Patty made a pained sound from the backseat. “Can we just go?”

Stan nodded, turning the car on. Richie glanced out the window at the house as they turned around and sped away, tears streaming down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I apologize for the ending of this chapter? Maybe. Am I going to? No 😈 You'll just have to come back on Friday to see how everything pans out, I guess ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> ANYWAYS, the amazing art at the end of this chapter was a piece I commissioned from the very talented Lily on Twitter! You can retweet/like the piece [here](https://twitter.com/LilyMuumi/status/1302049799831719941) and see her other (amazing) art [here](https://twitter.com/LilyMuumi)!
> 
> Pies mentioned in this chapter:  
> [Lonely Chicago Pie](http://www.annasheirloomkitchen.com/blog/2016/8/19/sweet-tooth-friday-lonely-chicago-pie)  
> [Goat cheese quiche](https://foolproofliving.com/goat-cheese-quiche-with-caramelized-onions-and-thyme/)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always greatly appreciated ♥️


	6. and when you think you can't, you can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do I have to do to make you stay?” Richie asked Bev, sliding into the booth across from her. “Sexual favors? Pie?”
> 
> “Sexual favors, no,” Bev laughed. “But pie...”
> 
> Richie nudged her ankle with his foot. “Anything you want. I’ll be your live-in pie cook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! 
> 
> As far as warnings for this chapter go, I will say that there is a scene alluding to the threat of intimate partner violence (but no such violence occurs!). If that king of thing will trigger you, that section begins at the line "It was still light out by time Richie got home"; and a subsequent scene summarizes the events of that interaction. 
> 
> Stay safe and I'll see you at the end!

In the weeks since Eddie had flown the coop, Richie hadn’t heard from him at all. At some point Richie just had to stop calling and texting. Eddie obviously didn’t want to talk to him. It hurt (of course it hurt, Richie was numb with the pain) but he was done offering up his heart on a silver platter.

Instead, Richie stuffed his bloody and bruised heart back into his chest and went back to his regularly scheduled programming.

Now that Richie didn’t have anything better to do after work while Connor was at band practice, Richie was slowly working his way through all of his dad’s things in the spare room. It was a slow-moving process, Richie only able to get through a small pile of stuff before he was too overcome with grief.

Richie had also taken the lead on planning Bev’s going away party. When he heard that Bev was leaving, Mr. Maturin had offered to close the diner on Sunday afternoon for the party. Richie had put together a playlist, prepared a menu, sent out invitations, and baked off half a dozen specialty pies.

So far, the party had gone off without a hitch. Richie was glad to see everyone enjoying themselves, friends, co-workers, and regular customers alike, despite the sadness he felt at Bev’s leaving.

“What do I have to do to make you stay?” Richie asked Bev, sliding into the booth across from her. “Sexual favors? Pie?”

“Sexual favors, no,” Bev laughed. “But pie...”

Richie nudged her ankle with his foot. “Anything you want. I’ll be your live-in pie cook.”

“This one is pretty damn good,” she pointed at the slice of pie in front of her (a Texas grapefruit pie, which he had delightfully named the Pretty in Pink Grapefruit Pie) with her fork. “It’s like key lime pie, but with grapefruit.”

“That’s what I was going for. Just imagine, if you stayed you could have that pie _every day_.”

“Every day? You wouldn’t even make me a new pie every day?”

“Babe, I'd make you whatever pie you want.”

Bev smiled, reaching across the table to hold Richie’s hand. “You’re going to be okay, Richie.”

“That’s what you say, but you don’t actually know that for sure.”

“You survived without me for 27 years, Rich.”

“And they were a terrible 27 years.”

She sighed, sliding off her bench and rounding the table to slip in next to Richie. She twisted their arms together, leaning against Richie’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, too.”

“I’m happy for you, Bev, really.” Richie tipped his head on top of hers, tears gathering at his eyes. “But I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose anyone else.”

“You’re not losing me, Richie. I’m just moving a couple hours away.” After a moment, she added, “and who knows, maybe after you win that pie contest, you’ll move even farther.”

“You’re moving too?” Patty asked, appearing behind them.

“No,” Richie said, craning his head to look her. “Probably not. Only if I win the Oxford County Fair’s pie contest.”

“You will,” the women said in unison.

Patty rounded the table to slide into the other side of the booth. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Bill thinks I should go to _New Jersey_.” Patty made a face of disgust, making Bev shake with laughter at his side. “Yeah, _I_ think he’s a moron.”

“I’m r-right here, asshole!” Bill said from somewhere behind him. Richie lifted one arm to flip him off, making Mike and Ben laugh in response.

“I think San Francisco would be nice,” Richie admitted, tracing a finger through the condensation that had gathered on the table.

“I think that’s a perfect place for Richie’s Pie Palace,” Bev said.

“You still holding out for that name?” Richie asked.

“Of course. And when you eventually franchise, I want 5% of the profits.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Richie said. “I don’t know if I’d really want to go that far away from you guys.”

“Oh, honey,” Bev said, squeezing his arm a little tighter. “Don’t let us hold you back. And what do you think planes and phones were invented for? Just because we’ll be far away, doesn’t mean we’ll stop being friends. It’s time for you put yourself and what you want first for once.”

(And god, didn’t that sound nice? Richie wished that he could be selfish, that he could have been selfish at one point in the last thirty years)

(Unbidden, Richie thought about Eddie. His deep-set dimples and his Bambi eyes and the raspy way he laughed in the early hours of the morning. The way Richie felt about him, present tense, was selfish as all hell)

“Well, if—”

“ _When_ ,” Bev and Patty cut in at the same time.

“When,” Richie sighed facetiously, “I win the pie contest, I might go to San Francisco.”

“That’s acceptable,” Bev said, reaching across the table for her pie. “Now what’s in San Francisco?”

“Nothing,” Richie replied truthfully. “Anything,” he shrugged.

“I think I’d like living there,” Patty said, smiling at Richie from across the table. “Stan would, too.”

“Well _when_ ,” he emphasized, making the two women smile, “I win the twenty thousand dollars, I’ll get the three of us a place out there.”

“Do you know how expensive San Francisco is?” Stan said, joining them. “Twenty thousand dollars would barely cover a down payment.”

“I didn’t say I would buy us a place, Staniel.” Richie paused, the comedy wheels turning in his brain. “Stan Francisco.”

“Nope. I will not move with you if you call me that ever again.”

Richie mimed zipping up his lips and throwing away the key, but he couldn’t help the smile curving at his mouth at the thought. He would miss all of his friends if he moved across the country, of course, but Richie thought it might kill him to leave Stan and Patty behind. They had been such an important part of his life for so long, Richie wasn’t sure he could be more than a few hours away from them and survive it.

Ben appeared then, pulling up a chair to sit next to Bev at the head of the table. “Who’s moving next?”

“Richie and the Blum-Urises,” Bev said, sliding a forkful of pie in her mouth. After swallowing, she asked him, “what do you think about opening an office in San Francisco?”

Ben hummed thoughtfully, “sounds like a good idea to me.”

“Perfect,” Patty said, smiling brightly. “That means we just need to get Bill and Mike on board.”

“Get Bill and Mike on board to do what?” Mike asked, pulling up his own chair. Bill was trailing behind him, leaning against Mike’s sizable bicep.

“We’re all moving to San Francisco, apparently,” Stan said.

“You don’t have to convince me, I’m in,” Mike said.

“W-well, I c-can’t go quite y-yet,” Bill said. “I need to s-s-stay in Derry for a lit-t-tle while.”

“Why’s that?” Ben asked.

“I’m f-f-filing for divorce in the great st-state of M-maine,” Bill admitted, cheeks coloring. 

“Oh,” Richie said, trying to gauge Bill’s feelings on the topic. “And that’s a...” he trailed off.

“G-good thing,” Bill supplied, smiling.

“Good for you, Bill,” Bev said.

“Thanks, B-bev. I think it’s t-t-time.”

“Also, you finally have grounds to file,” Mike said to Bill before turning his gaze to the rest of them. “Audra’s been gone for a year now.”

“Isn’t adultery also reasonable grounds for divorce?” Richie asked. Bev elbowed him in the ribs, “ow!”

“You deserved that,” Bev said.

“Y-yeah, R-rich,” Bill gave him a shit-eating grin. “You’re one t-to t-t-talk.”

Richie felt his face flush, “in my defense, I wasn’t the one who was married.”

“He has a point, babe,” Mike said. Richie noticed that his muscular arm was wrapped around Bill’s hip and tucked into the pocket on the opposite side.

“Ew,” Richie said. Bev elbowed him again. “Hey! That was a reasonable reaction.”

“I agree with the Trashmouth,” Stan said, regarding Mike and Bill carefully. “That was gross.”

“W-well if you already think I’m g-g-gross,” Bill said, smiling, “I guess you w-won’t mind if I ask-k my boyfriend to d-d-dance with me.” Right now the opening notes to Bonnie Raitt’s “Not the Only One” were trickling out of the speakers.

“I’d love to,” Mike said, standing up.

“May I have this dance?” Ben asked, offering a up hand for Bev to take.

“You may,” Bev laughed, letting Ben drag her away.

Patty cooed as they walked by, her eyes following Ben, Bev, Mike, and Bill to the middle of the diner where Richie had moved around some of the tables to make room for a dance floor. When she turned back, there was a blithe little smile on her face. “So, Richie—”

“You don’t have to keep me company,” Richie said. “Go, dance. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure, Rich?” Stan asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Patty said. She turned to Stan with a soft smile on her face. “Lovebird, can I have this dance?”

“As if I could ever say no to you, Babylove,” Stan kissed her temple before sliding out of the booth, Patty in tow.

Richie watched his friends dance, the love radiating off of them. Patty spun Stan while Mike dipped Bill while Ben held Bev tight against his chest. It was almost too much to watch them, but Richie couldn’t tear his gaze away.

( _It’s jealousy_ , he thought to himself. _Viscous jealousy_ )

“Richard,” Mr. Maturin said, tugging Richie from his thoughts, “is your dance card full?” Richie looked up at the old man (he was wearing a nice sport coat and a dapper little patterned bow tie) to see him extending a hand out to Richie.

Richie chuckled, unbidden. “I think I could pencil you in,” he said, standing up and taking Mr. Maturin’s arm, Joe leading them out to the dance floor. He took one of Richie’s hands and placing it on his shoulder. Mr. Maturin wrapped his arm around Richie, his hand resting between Richie’s shoulder blades. Their free hands came together, and they swayed on the scuffed linoleum floor.

“You know, Richard,” Mr. Maturin said, “I remember the day that your mother told me she was pregnant with you.”

Richie felt his breath catch in his throat. “Really?” he asked, voice tight.

“Yes. Back then, I was much more involved in the day-to-day tasks of running the diner. I leave most of that to Michael now. Anyhow, your mother came in to tell me she was pregnant, absolutely glowing. She was so excited to become a mother.”

They continued to sway back and forth, Mr. Maturin watching Richie carefully. “It seemed like just yesterday she was bringing you in here for the first time. Thirty years later, and I still remember your mother’s smile and the joy radiating off of your father when they looked at you. There was nothing they loved more than being your mom and dad.”

Richie felt the tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t dare to wipe them away. “I never had that,” Mr. Maturin continued on, “a spouse, a child. And when your father passed...” Joe cleared his throat, his voice growing thick. “I thought that it was so unfair that an old man like me got to live when you had lost both of your parents.”

“Joe—”

“No, no, let me continue.” The song changed, Bonnie Raitt making room for Journey’s “Faithfully”. Their swaying slowed to match the tempo of the new song. “They were such good people, and they loved you so much. You are the living embodiment of that love, Richard. Somedays it seems like it’s pouring right out of you.”

“That’s what makes me such a good waiter,” Richie joked.

Joe leveled him with a stern look, “you need to keep some of that love for yourself. You shouldn’t be giving all of yourself away.” Richie was incapable of speaking for a moment, and so Mr. Maturin went on. “I know you’ve been shacking up with that Bowers kid. He’s no good for you. People like that,” Joe tightened his hold on Richie, “will take and take everything you have to give, until there’s nothing left.”

(This was somehow worse to hear than when his father used to say I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Joe wasn't disappointed, he was _worried_ )

“I’m leaving him,” Richie finally managed. “I’ve putting some of my tip money away, and I finally have enough to buy myself a new life.”

“Good.” They started to spin in a slow circle. Out of the corner of his eye, Richie saw Stan and Patty dancing cheek to cheek. “Take it from an old man, Richard, the days are long, but the years are short. Don’t waste a single second of it.”

“Do you regret it?” Richie asked. “Not ever getting married or having kids?”

“No,” Joe said earnestly. “I don’t live with regrets. I never really wanted kids. Or to get married. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been with a lot of people. Men, women, all kinds of people in between—”

Richie gave a low wolf whistle. “Joe, you sly dog!”

Mr. Maturin didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a smile and his wrinkled face blushed pink. “ _But_ ,” he intoned, “I didn’t feel that deep kind of love for anyone. I just don’t think I’m capable of it. Romantically, anyway.”

Richie took a moment to respond, letting Joe’s words simmer and then settle. “I thought I was like that too,” he said at last. “Or maybe that I just wasn’t cut out for love. And then I met someone and it finally all made sense. All that stuff people talk about when they say that they’ve fallen in love?” Richie sighed, his heart squeezing in his chest, “I felt that too. Loving him never felt like giving myself away.”

“Edward?” Mr. Maturin asked.

“Yeah,” Richie laughed humorlessly. “Was it that obvious?”

“No, you two seemed to bicker a lot. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I don’t understand you young people sometimes—” he shook his head. “Never mind. I just noticed how sad you’ve been since he left.”

“Yeah, I,” Richie couldn’t breathe for a moment, “it’s been hard.”

“Have you heard from him at all?”

Richie shook his head. “I stopped trying to contact him. He obviously doesn’t want to speak to me.”

“I don’t know, Richard. It might be more complicated than that.”

“Well, the ball is in his court.”

Mr. Maturin’s green-eyed gaze turned contemplative for a moment. “Do you still love him?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, voice quiet. “But I never got to say it.” Tears sprang up in his eyes again, welling up and pouring over.

Joe just pulled him closer, it felt more like they were hugging than dancing. “It’s okay, Rich. You’re going to be okay.”

(Mr. Maturin had never called him anything other than Richie, and he had known him his whole life. The nickname only made him cry harder)

By the time the song ended, Richie had mostly composed himself. “Hey, Joe,” Bev said appearing at Richie’s side, “you mind if I cut in? This is our song.”

Their song was, in fact, playing; Richie grinning at the synth pop beat of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” pouring out of the speakers.

(When Bev had first started working at Joe’s, the two of them had been working the evening shift. At the end of the night they had to wipe down every table and clean the floors. It was kind of terrible, made only bearable by Bev plugging her phone into the surprisingly modern stereo system and putting her 80s playlist on shuffle. But every time “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” came on, Bev would toss aside her mop and take the rag and disinfectant spray out of Richie’s hands so they could dance)

“Of course, Beverly,” Joe said, stepping away from Richie. “Benjamin, would you walk me back to my table?”

Ben and Joe walked off, Bev taking Richie by the hand and spinning herself around; her smile giving the neon a run for its money.

***

The sun was still up when the party had dwindled down, leaving just Richie, Bev, Ben, Mike, and Bill. Mike had fired up the grill, serving up burgers and fries while Richie made a series of increasingly weird milkshakes. Ben was regaling them with the story about how he got banned from the Flavian Amphitheatre during the year he took backpacking through Europe, the lot of them in stitches.

“This was a really great party,” Bev said, leaning into Richie’s side while Mike shared his own story of his travels through Europe.

“Thanks, Bevvy. I’m glad you had a good time.”

“I’m gonna miss you most of all, I think,” she said.

“You better, Dorothy Gale,” Richie replied, affecting an old-timey Hollywood Voice, making Bev smile.

“You really are the scarecrow,” she tugged at the Richie’s loud-patterned button up (dark blue with little pink flamingos, worn closed and tucked into his jeans).

“ _If I only had a brain_ ,” Richie sang.

“You w-were valedictor-rian, asshole,” Bill said, stacking up their empty plates.

“Yes, I was valedictorian. No, I don’t have a brain. We exist.”

Ben snorted into his water glass, Bev rolling her eyes at Richie’s side. “A-actually that check-ks out,” Bill laughed and disappeared into the kitchen.

Bev yawned widely. “You tired, babe?” Ben asked.

“Yeah,” she yawned again. “Can we head out?”

“Sure thing. Richie, you want a ride?”

Stan and Patty, who had gone home hours ago, had been his ride to Joe’s, and Bill and Mike had offered to stay and clean up, so Ben and Bev were his only hope for a ride home.

However, despite the fact that the number of hours Bev had left in Derry were dwindling, he didn’t really want to drive home with them. The sun was still out, this late in the summer, the sky dashed in orange and gold.

“No, I think I’ll walk.”

“You sure?” Bev asked.

“Yeah, I want to be alone for a little while. But I’ll head out with you guys.”

Bev nodded, then stood and stretched. “We’re still on for breakfast tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Richie pulled her in for a hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. They said their goodbyes to Bill and Mike and walked out to the parking lot together. Ben climbed into his car and turned it on, but Bev lingered on the asphalt with Richie.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” she asked.

“Walking? Yeah, it’s like a mile. And my white male privilege will protect me even if my muscles can’t.”

Bev rolled her eyes. “I meant with me leaving.”

“Bev, we’ve talked about this,” Richie sighed. “I’m happy for you, I’m glad you’re getting out.”

“That was before Eddie left,” she said, matter of fact. Richie felt himself flinch away from her. “I just mean,” Bev caught Richie’s arm before he could turn completely away, “you were okay with me leaving when there was something else keeping you here.”

The hardened walls around Richie’s heart trembled with the crushing blow. “It’s not like I _wanted_ Eddie to ghost me.”

“I’m not saying that. Of course I’m not saying that.”

“Then what’s the problem, Bev?”

Her face twisted in thought for a few beats before she softened. “It hurts to know that I’m hurting you, Richie. You don’t deserve that. You deserve better than this backwater town. You deserve better than people leaving you. You deserve love and happiness more than anyone I know. And it kills me to know that I am taking some of that away from you.”

“Bev,” Richie sighed, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Nothing makes me happier than seeing the people I love happy, okay?”

“But it shouldn’t be like that,” her arms were squeezing Richie around his middle, punctuating her point. “You should be happy because good things are happening to you.”

They stood like that for a few moments, just holding each other. For what felt like the millionth time that evening, Richie felt tears well up in his eyes. “I did have that, for a little while.”

“I’m sorry Eddie left, Richie. And I’m sorry for Eddie that he hurt you, because the next time that I see him, I will murder him. And no one will be able to find the body.”

Richie laughed, hugging her a little tighter. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Because you don’t think you’ll see him again?”

“No,” Richie exhaled a breath he felt like he had been holding for weeks, “because if I ever see him again, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

Bev pulled away, beaming up at Richie, her own icy blue eyes watering. “I’m so proud of you, you know.”

“Stop looking at me like that,” Richie replied, voice thick. He wiped at his face with one hand. “You’re not my real mom.”

She laughed, squeezing him one last time around the middle and stepping back. “I should probably go, don’t want to keep Ben waiting.”

“He’s good to you, right?”

Surprisingly, Bev blushed. “He’s amazing to me.”

“You deserve that, Bev.”

“Thanks, Richie.” She rose up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. “Get home safe, okay?” She backed towards the car, still smiling like a goon. “And I’ll be there at 9:30 to pick you up for breakfast.”

“See ya later, Marsh.”

“‘Night, Richie.”

Richie watched Bev climb into the car, Ben waiting for her to buckle before he shifted the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking spot. Richie waited for them to be out of view before he started walking.

The fastest way home from the diner on foot was through downtown Derry, but Richie wanted to take his time. He felt ripped open and raw, like his whole heart was on display. After a few weeks of just trying to ignore the pain, it felt nice to let it all out. He would have to pack it all back up by the time he got home, so maybe it was okay to wallow in it for a little bit.

So Richie took the long way home, through Bassey Park and over the Kissing Bridge. He and Eddie had walked through the park on their adventures through downtown Derry, shoulders and elbows and hands brushing against each other’s as they meandered over the Kissing Bridge.

“This is where the kids who don’t have cars go to make out,” Richie had said, watching Eddie out of the corner of his eye. He was the most casually dressed Richie had ever seen him, in a pair of cuffed khakis (which made his ass look so good that Richie was surprised he wasn’t drooling) and one of Richie’s ridiculously pattered shirts (that he had pulled out of Richie’s overnight bag, made fun of, and then refused to give back) tucked in to them.

“So we shouldn’t come back here after sundown?” Eddie asked, dimples on full display like he was actively trying to kill Richie.

“No, not unless you have some sort of exhibitionism kink I don’t know about.”

“What’s the difference between us making out here and at the Quarry Lookout?”

“The _vibe_ , for one,” Eddie made a fake gagging noise, making Richie laugh, “and two, you’re married.”

“You’re right,” Eddie rolled his eyes, “I totally forgot about my wife.” They walked a little farther along the bridge, Eddie studying the carvings in the old wood. “But if we were just a couple of teenagers?” he asked, like it was a complete question.

(It wasn’t, but Richie knew what he meant anyways)

“Oh I definitely would want to kiss you here. And I wouldn’t even wait for the sun to go down. Homophobes be dammed.”

Eddie’s mouth curved into a secret little smile. “Would that be before or after you took me to the Quarry Lookout?”

“First of all, _you_ took _me_ to the Quarry Lookout. So if anyone here is the randy teenage boy, it’s you.”

“And what does that make you?”

“Your shy, but inexplicably sexy, math tutor,” Richie replied automatically, like he had thought about it before.

(He had, as embarrassing as it was)

“Oh?” Eddie laughed, the sound making Richie smile like a goon, “so you tutor me in calculus, and I tutor you in...”

“Orgasms, yeah.”

Eddie tried to keep a straight face, tried to glare at Richie in the June sunshine, but it was impossible. At first it was just a small laugh, a little exhalation of breath through his nose. Then it was a single guffaw. Then all bets were off, Eddie stopping and doubling over, one hand wrapped around his stomach as he laughed.

“Fuck, Rich,” he said, once he had caught his breath. Eddie placed a hand on Richie’s bicep to stabilize himself (despite the fact that he was completely steady on his feet) and looked at him sidelong. “Where do you get off being that funny?” he asked, totally in awe.”

“On you, hopefully,” Richie answered, a little too truthfully.

The awed expression melted off of Eddie’s face, replaced with annoyance (though, Richie was quite good at reading Eddie by now, and he knew that the expression was just a front). “Gross.” Eddie started walking, Richie easily keeping pace. “And if anything, you’re the one tutoring me in orgasms,” he said, keeping his gaze ahead, smirking.

The Richie of the present warily took a step on to the Kissing Bridge, worried he might disturb the ghosts of this place. Once the memory had passed, took a second step, the old bridge creaking underfoot.

He had never had the adolescent experience of falling in love for the first time. Richie thought that he would have to hide in the closet forever, that his dealings with boys would always happen behind closed doors and in the dark of night. As much as he wanted to walk hand-in-hand with a boy he liked across the Kissing Bridge, teenaged-Richie thought it was impossible.

It still was, to a certain degree. But not for the same reasons fourteen-year-old Richie had thought. Maybe he didn’t get to hold Eddie’s hand, walking across the Kissing Bridge, but he made Eddie laugh so hard he almost cried and smile at him like he hung the moon.

(And that was even better)

He had gotten that love he had always wanted. Short and sweet as summertime.

And just like the summer, it ended on a sour note.

(But Richie still loved Eddie. How could he not? It was just like Joe had said, it was pouring right out of him)

Richie stopped about halfway across the bridge, leaning against the railing and watching the sky turn pink as the sun set. The Kenduskeag was little more than a stream this time of year; it had been a particularly dry summer. He glanced down at the worn wood of the railing, tracing a finger over the names and initials carved there.

This was another inane thing teenaged-Richie had wanted; to have someone’s initials to carve into the Kissing Bridge next to his.

The Swiss army knife Went had given him for his fifteenth birthday (the one he had carried everywhere he went for half of his life now) sat heavy in his pocket. Reaching for it felt right, Richie’s veins thrumming with adrenaline.

He knelt down, sliding the knife attachment out of his Swiss. Richie made quick work of the carving, the old wood giving easily under the sharp knife. When it was done, he stood up, admiring his work. He traced a finger over each line, each stroke, a sad smile curling at his mouth.

_R + E_

Joe was right, he had love pouring out of him, it just needed someplace to go.

Now Richie could pack up his heart and put it away. It was still a little tender, a little sore; but it was still whole, and it would heal. One day.

***

It was still light out by time Richie got home. Connor’s truck was parked in the driveway, a few of the lights on inside. With a deep breath, Richie started up the front walk and into the house.

It was eerily still when Richie walked in the house. The TV was on, but it was muted. And the couch, where Richie had expected to find Connor, was empty, if not a bit disheveled. A creeping sense of anxiety crawled up Richie’s spine, but he called out, “Connor?” anyway.

There were footsteps from the kitchen, and Richie stopped in his tracks.

Connor appeared, silhouetted by the light of the kitchen, but Richie knew it was him by the smell of PBR wafting across the living room. Richie looked around to find at least a dozen and half cans strewn about the room. “Dude, are you okay?”

“Hell no,” Connor slurred, stepping into the living room at last.

He was trashed, in every sense of the word. Drunk as a skunk, in dirty, ill-fitting clothes, hair greasy and skin greasier. As Connor drunkenly stumbled closer to him, Richie took a step back.

“What’s going on, Connor?”

“You fuckin’ tell me,” he slurred, holding something that Richie couldn't quite recognize form across the room. Connor threw it at Richie, the metal cornstarch tin landing somewhere near his feet. He didn’t need to get a good look at it now to know what it was, Richie’s blood turning to ice in his veins.

Connor held up a stack of bills, still furious. “What the fuck is this, Rich? It’s almost,” he hiccupped, “two grand. What the fuck were you doin’ with two grand tucked away in the fuckin’ kitchen? Huh?”

Richie finally understood what it felt like to be a deer in the headlights. He was frozen in place, terrified, not sure if there was any way out of this situation alive.

He had seen Connor drunk many, many times. The first few times that they had hooked up, Connor was trashed. It was the only way he could manage to kiss Richie without immediately running away. So Richie was familiar with the different shades of a drunk Connor Bowers. There was Horny Connor (three wine coolers and a swig of whiskey), Bitchy Connor (two double Jack and Cokes), Sleepy Connor (strangely enough, tequila shots), and, Richie’s least favorite, Mean-Spirited Connor (a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon or any comparable shitty, frat-boy beer).

But Richie had never seen Connor violent, gunning for a fight. He was so deep in the closet that he pushed all those feelings of resentment aside to make room for his own self-hatred. So this was new, and it terrified Richie.

“I’ve been putting away some of my tip money,” he said, voice strained.

Connor took another, fumbling step towards him; Richie’s heart leaping into his throat. “And why the fuck were you doin' that?”

(Here’s the thing, Richie was pretty sure he could defend himself against Connor if it came down to that. He was bigger and taller than him, and Richie had the added benefit of being stone cold sober. But Richie was still terrified. Connor had been stewing in his anger for god knows how long now. Long enough to kill a case of beer. So Richie had to be careful if he wanted to leave this argument in one piece)

“I-I,” Richie sent his future self an apology, “wanted to do something nice for you.” Connor remained tense. “I was saving it up so you could go to the battle of the bands thing. You know, for the entry fee.”

Connor’s shoulders lowered, his posture relaxing. “Really?”

Richie mustered all the sincerity he could. “Uh huh,” he gave Connor a wan smile. “You should follow your dreams.”

“Wow,” Connor blinked a few times, the alcohol-induced rage clearing from his eyes. “Babe, that’s so sweet.”

(Richie watched, in horror, as Connor tucked the money, every single cent that Richie was going to use to buy himself a new life, into the pocket of his dirty, ripped jeans)

“Yeah, you know me,” Richie laughed humorlessly, “sweet.”

It took everything in Richie not to flinch when Connor stepped closer, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth. He wrapped an arm around Richie’s middle, mumbling “how can I make it up to you?” into Richie’s jaw.

“Uh,” Richie maneuvered out of Connor’s embrace. “Can I get a raincheck? I’m tired and all sweaty...”

Connor laughed stumbling backwards until he fell, ass-first, on to the couch. “That’s probably a good idea. Whiskey dick, y’know.”

“Right.” Richie forced his face into some semblance of a smile.

(It didn’t matter, Connor had already turned his attention to the TV)

“I’m gonna go shower,” he said uselessly. Connor just waved him off, turning up the volume on the television.

On his way out of the room, Richie bent down to pick up the empty cornstarch tin.

***

Richie’s first day at Joe’s without Bev started bad, and just kept getting worse.

Because his ride (and best friend) had moved to Bangor, Richie had to catch the bus. The 45 minutes of sleep he lost out on to be up early enough to get to work on time, felt like _hours_. Richie was practically a zombie walking into Joe’s and desperately in need of coffee.

“What do you mean the coffee machine is broken?” he asked Bill.

“I m-mean that it’s b-b-broken,” he shrugged, affixing a sign (reading _Out of Order_ in Mike’s block lettering) to the coffee maker that was actively trying to ruin Richie’s life.

“What happened?”

“I d-don’t know. It just st-st-stopped working. It was a p-piece of shit.”

“Ugh,” Richie groaned, collapsing onto the counter. “I’m so fucking tired, dude.”

“Sorry, R-rich,” Bill said placatingly, patting Richie on the shoulder. “W-what’s the special p-pie t-today?”

“I Don’t Give a Fig,” Richie said into his crossed arms.

“I know you’re t-tired and that y-you miss B-bev, but y-you gotta r-r-rally, dude.”

Richie sat up. “No, that’s the name of it. ‘I Don’t Give a Fig Pie’.”

“Oh,” Bill laughed, “I sh-should’ve known.”

Saying goodbye to Bev the day before was the hardest thing Richie had done since his father had died. She picked him up on Monday morning (Richie taking a much-needed day off) and drove them to outskirts of town to a Waffle House for sub-par waffles and top-notch hash browns. Richie tried his best to have one last good day with her, but his mood was clouded by the memory of his argument with Connor the night before.

Richie was embarrassed to have given up his life saving’s so quickly, and he wasn’t quite ready to share the story with Bev quite yet. She did, however, drag the story out of him eventually.

“It was the right thing to do if you were scared that he was going to hurt you,” she said, the two of them perched on the hood of her car, drinking take out cups of Waffle House’s terrible coffee.

“What, just give in?” Richie picked at the lid of his cup. “I thought you were supposed to stand up to your bullies.”

“Sure. But you’re also supposed to give the robber all the money in the register if he asks for it.”

Richie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyways. I gave him the money, end of story.”

“It’s not the end, Richie,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his knee. “You’re the author of this story. It’s not over until you say it is.”

***

It was an unnecessarily busy Tuesday, and it was only Bill and Richie on the floor until ten when Vicky came in. Besides the extra pair of hands, Richie was delighted to see the tray of coffees she brought with her.

“Mike told me the coffee machine was kaput,” she said, handing a cup to Richie, “I figured I should bring reinforcements.”

“You are an angel Vicky Fuller. I would die for you.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t cha think, Rich?” she laughed.

“I’m so fu—” Richie remembered he was at work and speaking to a minor, “fudging,” he winced, “tired. This coffee is the only good thing in my life right now.”

“I feel that,” Vicky took a swig from her coffee. “Okay, which section is mine?”

It was easier with Vicky around, not only because they were fully staffed, but because she was a bright, young, carefree presence. Richie was in such a terrible mood, but just seeing Vicky out of the corner of his eye, or hearing her laugh above the din of customers lifted his spirits.

Mr. Maturin came in near the end of Richie's shift for a late lunch, seating himself at his usual table with his little book of sudoku puzzles.

“Hey, Joe,” Richie said, sidling up to his table. “What can I get started for you?”

“Just a slice of today’s special, Richard,” he said, not looking up until he had penciled in a few numbers into the puzzle. “And a glass of iced tea.”

“You don’t want lunch?”

“I had a sandwich at home,” he went back to his puzzle. “I know I look like an invalid, but I am perfectly capable of cooking for myself, Richard.”

“I never doubted you, Joe,” Richie didn’t bother writing down the order, tucking his notepad into his apron. “I’ll get your pie in just a minute.”

“No hurry,” Mr. Maturin waved him off, “I’ve got all day.”

Richie took the opportunity to close out his other tables before putting together Joe’s order. It was the last slice of pie, Richie wiping down the chalkboard so no one else would bother with ordering it.

“Here you go,” he put the pie and the glass down, wiping the condensation from his hand on his apron. “You need anything else before I clock out?”

Mr. Maturin looked up. “Yes, one moment.” He reached into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a white envelope. “I have the mail for the diner forwarded to my house, and this arrived this morning.” He held the envelope out to Richie. “It’s addressed to you.”

Richie assumed it was some sort of notice from the Oxford County Fair organizers. When he had entered the pie contest, he had listed the diner as his mailing address. However, when Richie saw the front of the envelope, he recognized the messy scrawl.

It was Eddie’s handwriting.

“I don’t want this,” Richie choked out, trying to hand the letter back to Joe.

“It’s not mine,” Joe shrugged, reaching across the table for his pie. “And it’s mail fraud if I keep it.” He took a bite of the pie, face morning into pleasure. “This pie is delicious, Richard.”

Richie was still staring at the letter in his hand, a tidal wave of overwhelming emotion crashing over him.

“You don’t have to open it, you know,” Mr. Maturin said, popping another bite of pie into his mouth and chewing. “Where and when and if at all that letter gets opened, is completely up to you.”

“It’s from Eddie,” Richie managed to breathe out.

“I could tell.”

“What?” Richie looked down at him. “Like you could sense it was him?”

“No,” Mr. Maturin took the letter from his hand and flipped it over, “it has a return address on it.”

So it did. In Manhattan, that was interesting.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Richie said, shoving the letter into his apron.

“And you don’t have to.”

Richie chanced a glance at the clock on the wall. “My shift is over, let Vicky know if you need anything.”

“Will do, Richard,” he said, getting back to his puzzle.

Richie made his way into the kitchen, quickly clocking out and gathering his things.

“You okay, Rich?” Mike asked, face drawn up in concern.

“Fine, I’m just fine,” he threw his bag over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna miss my bus, so I better get going.”

“Alright see you—” he started, but Richie didn’t hear the rest, disappearing out the back door of the diner.

***

On Wednesday, Richie was in the kitchen, prepping more pies for the rest of the week, when Vicky popped her head in, looking for him. “Hey, Trashmouth—”

“Get my lanky ass out there?” he supplied.

“No. Well, yes,” Vicky laughed, “but Stan and Patty are here, they’re asking for you.”

“Okay, I’ll be out in just a minute. I gotta stick this,” he gestured to the classic apple pie in front of him, “in the oven.”

“Roger that,” she said, slipping out of the kitchen.

Richie put the finishing touches on the lattice top of the pie before sliding the whole thing in the oven and washing his hands. While his shift wasn’t technically over, he didn’t have to be on the floor; being relegated to kitchen duty after one too many wrong orders that morning.

“It’s a slow day,” Mike told him, leading Richie into the kitchen. “Bill or Vicky will ask for your help if they need it.”

So Richie made pies, taking his frustration out on the pastry. It was cathartic, really, and he did feel a little better after a few hours in the kitchen.

“Hey there, Staniel,” Richie slipped into the chair at the end of their booth, “Pattycakes.”

“Hey, Richie,” Patty smiled at him, stirring a little packet of raw sugar into her tea. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, tired,” Richie shrugged.

“How’s it been here without Bev?” Stan asked.

“Hard. I miss her like crazy,” Richie replied a little too honestly. “But Vicky’s been a nice replacement so far. I’m kind of dreading her going back to school.”

“Me too,” she said, appearing, seemingly, out of nowhere. “But it’s my senior year, so I gotta go.”

“That’s so exciting!” Patty cheered, “we had such a fun senior year, right guys?”

“Oh yeah,” Richie replied facetiously, “I was getting my ass kicked every day and your pining,” he pointed at his two friends, “was off the fucking charts.”

“Hey,” Stan said, lightly kicking at Richie’s ankle for his attention.

“What?” Richie replied, not unlike an unruly teenager. Vicky took the opportunity to slip away, and he was glad she wasn’t going to witness his scolding up close and personal.

“I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks. Don’t take it out on us.” He paused. “Actually, just don’t take it out on Patty. I’ve seen you at your worst, and I can take it.”

“Who’s to say this isn’t my worst, huh?”

“Because I figure losing your parents is worse than some guy ghosting you or your friend moving away.”

“Oh, fuck you—” Richie pushed his chair out, ready to stand and walk away.

“Hey,” Patty reached out, catching his arm. “Stay?” she asked. “Please?”

“Fine,” he fell heavily back into his chair, “but only because you asked so nicely, Pattykins.”

Patty smiled, a small, sad little thing. “Thanks, Rich,” she patted his hand.

Richie turned to Stan, anger still bubbling just under the surface. “Eddie’s not just some guy who ghosted me, okay?” Stan remained unconvinced. Richie, a little embarrassed by the confession. “I loved him. Love him,” he corrected. “Present-tense.”

“Oh, Richie,” Patty sighed, reaching over to take his hand.

“I’m sorry, Rich,” Stan said, “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” Richie said, truthfully. “You didn’t know what I looked like when I was in love.” Patty squeezed his hand again. “And god,” Richie sighed, “Eddie leaving isn’t even the worst thing that happened.”

“What’s wrong, Richie?” she asked.

“I had to give Connor the money I was saving up. The one for Bev’s old apartment.”

“Oh, honey,” Patty slid along the seat of the booth so she could wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“What the fuck,” Stan said, fuming. “Did he take your money?”

“No, I gave it to him.” Stan was still furious when Richie looked up. “It’s a long story, I,” Richie glanced away, face burning in shame. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You have to get out of there, Rich. He’s sucking all the life out of you.”

Richie shrugged. Stan wasn’t wrong. And Richie had said before (many, many times) that _it wasn’t that easy_ , but for once he knew that was wrong. It was that easy, because now Richie had nothing to lose.

“I know, but I’m going to need your help.”

***

Connor (and all of his stupid bandmates) left for Bangor in the afternoon the Thursday before the Fourth of July. An hour after they had left the Derry city limits, Stan and Patty pulled up to Richie’s house.

“What’s going in our car and what is going in Mike’s truck?” Stan asked, eyeing the array of boxes and suitcases strewn about the living room.

“I think we should try and get as many of the suitcases in your car and then make the rest of it fit in the truck?”

“Works for me. Babylove, you want to start with the wheeled ones?”

“On it!” Patty said, taking one suitcase in each hand and heading out the door.

“So,” Stan said when they were alone. “You’re finally doing it.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“How does it feel?”

(Stan was obviously trying to gauge his reaction in order to tailor his demeanor. Richie was so lucky to have a friend like Stanley Uris)

“Really fuckin’ good.”

Stan’s face broke out into a wide, but rarely ever seen, smile. “Good. Now let’s get you the fuck out of this house.”

Mike had already arrived by the time Stan and Richie had carried out four more suitcases. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie replied, handing off the bags to Patty to Tetris into the car. “I’m just glad you and your big muscles are here.”

“Oh, so you only want me for my body?” Mike joked.

“That’s right, big guy,” Richie gave Mike a friendly pat on the ass, “hop to it.”

“I know you’re going through a lot right now, so I will do you the favor of not telling my boyfriend you just slapped my ass.”

“Why? I’m not afraid of Bill Denbrough. I could kick his ass.”

“Didn’t he break your nose once?” Stan asked, joining them on the walk into the house for the next load of Richie’s crap.

“He didn’t break my nose!” Richie exclaimed, the other two men laughing. “Okay, so boxes in the truck, suitcases in the sedan.”

“Easy enough,” Mike said, picking up several boxes and waltzing out of the house.

“God,” Richie sighed, “those arms.”

Stan scuffed him upside the head. “Stop objectifying your friends and get to work.”

***

With the back seat of Stan's car full to the tits with Richie's suitcases, Richie had to ride in the front seat of Mike's cab; his old Jansport sitting at feet.

(The backpack was packed with all Richie's essentials, his toothbrush, a clean set of work clothes, and the fluted pie pan Eddie gave him)

They were driving with the windows down, the radio turned low. Richie had his face angled towards the open window, warm summer breeze blowing his hair back; a small, bittersweet smile on his face as he watched the little green house disappear in the rearview mirror.

"I haven't seen you this happy in a long time, Richie."

He turned back to Mike, his friend smiling at Richie from the driver's seat. "I know I've been kind of off since Eddie left," Richie said.

"No," Mike shook his head. "I mean yeah, you were happier with Eddie, but I don't think you were really _happy_ , Rich. Ever since your dad died, it's like," Mike searched for the right words, "you've been carrying that grief around with you." Richie didn't respond. Couldn't respond. "When you were with Eddie, it was the happiest you had ever been. But it wasn't until now that you've broken through the glass ceiling on your happiness."

Richie turned to look out the window again, letting Mike's words sink in. He knew Mike was right, he could feel it down to the very core of his being. "Bev said that I should be happy because good things are happening to _me_ , not just the people I love" Richie said to the open window, watching Derry blur past. "I think I'm finally starting to be believe her."

***

Stan and Patty lived in a cute little house they rented that was only a few blocks away from the house Richie grew up in. Pulling up to their blue and white cottage in Mike's pickup truck felt a little like coming home.

There wasn’t much of a guest room to speak of at the Blum-Uris house, however. Technically, it was Stan’s office with a day bed squeezed into it. The room would do for present; Richie was just relieved to be out of his old place. All of his inessential items (winter clothes, books, knickknacks, and all of Went and Maggie’s old things) were being stored in the basement until Richie figured out a plan for more permanent lodging.

“What do you think will happen when Connor gets back?” Patty asked, helping Richie unpack his suitcase with his current wardrobe.

“I honestly don’t know,” Richie shrugged.

“You think he’s going to give you any grief about your lease?”

“Nah, we were month to month, and I left my half of the July rent with the note. He doesn’t have a legal foot to stand on.”

(Richie had toyed with the idea of leaving a letter for Connor, but every time he sat down to write it, he felt like he was going to have a panic attack. In the end he wrote a simple note which he paperclipped to the stack of bills that he left on the coffee table: _Connor, I’m done. Here’s my half of the July rent. Richie_ )

“I’m really proud of you, Richie,” Patty said, hanging up one of Richie’s terrible shirts (a neon orange with bright blue polygons all over it) in the closet which had been cleared out of hers and Stan’s winter coats.

“I know, you’ve said it like a million times today.”

Patty sighed, crossing the room to sit next to Richie on the bed. “It’s hard, leaving an unhealthy relationship.”

“How would you know?” Richie asked, defensive. “You’ve only ever really been with Stan, and you two are like soulmates.”

“That’s true,” she reached over to take Richie’s hand, “but I saw what it was like for my parents. They weren’t good for each other. They knew it, I knew it. Anyone who saw them knew it. But it still took them years to finally end things.” She squeezed his hands. “Sometimes it’s hard to let go of the things that are hurting us, if it’s all that we know.”

Richie, who had started tearing up the moment Patty had taken his hand, leaning onto her shoulder, quietly crying. She shushed and comforted him, wrapping her other arm around his back to hold him close.

They sat like that for a long time, Richie letting himself feel all the emotions he had been working so hard to repress these last few weeks (months. _Years_ ). When he had finally composed himself enough to sit up, Patty extracted herself from his side, getting back to work unpacking his suitcase.

“Ooh, what’s this?” she asked as Richie was busy pairing up his socks. He looked up to see Patty holding a familiar looking (but utterly foreboding) envelope. “Paycheck?”

“No,” Richie replied too quickly, snatching the letter way from her. He had tucked it among his regular rotation clothes to make sure it didn’t get packed away into the basement where he would never be able to find it.

“Okay,” she said carefully.

“It’s just,” Richie started, stuffing the envelope in his pocket. “A letter.”

“From who?”

Richie didn’t respond right away, Patty glancing up from the suitcase, concern evident on her face. He figured it was best to just get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. “Eddie.”

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “Have you read it yet?”

“No, I, I,” Richie took a deep breath. “I can’t even open it.”

“Richie! You have to read it!” Patty walked over to him. “You two haven’t spoken in almost a month. Don’t you want to know what he said?”

“I already know,” Richie replied. “It’s some bullshit excuse for why he left and a half-assed apology.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t possibly know that.”

Richie collapsed against the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I need to manage my expectations.”

Patty joined him on the day bed, stretching out next to Richie. “Why’s that?”

“Because if it’s worse than what I think it is, it’ll kill me.”

“And if it’s better?”

“It’ll kill me.”

“Honey,” Patty sighed, scooting closer to Richie. She was warm and soft, and Richie loved her so much. “Not knowing is what will kill you. It’ll always be a _what if_ at the back of your mind. You should read it. It’s the only way to move on.”

(She was right, of course she was. Richie had no choice but to take the damn thing out of his pocket)

“Will you sit here while I read it? I might need a hug afterwards.”

“Of course.” Patty reached down and squeezed his hand twice before pulling hers away. “Go on.”

Richie slipped his finger under the flap on the back of the envelope, ripping it open. With a deep breath, he pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it. It was written on lined paper, one edge jagged; like it was ripped out of a notebook. Eddie's handwriting was messy, but still legible; There were scratched out sections and smudged ink, but the paper still felt precious in his hands.

Richie began to read.

_Rich,_

_I know you probably hate me. And I don’t blame you. I hate myself, honestly, for the way that I left. But I hope you will at least hear me out._

_Myra’s mother died that weekend we were together, and while it was not a surprise, Myra was overcome with grief at the loss of her mother. We went to Bangor to be with the rest of her family, and without my knowing, she had booked us tickets back to New York, hired movers to clear out our house in Derry, and wrote Dr. Keene a letter of resignation._

_When I found out about her plan, I should have just told her I wanted a divorce, but I was too afraid._ What’s the harm in waiting another month? _I thought to myself._

_I know, I know. I’m a coward. You told me “you’re braver than you think,” but I don’t think that’s true. At least not anymore._

_~~That’s why I didn’t respond to your texts or your calls. I was afraid. And you don’t deserve to be with a coward. You deserve someone who is going to love you out loud. I didn’t think I could be that for you.~~ _

_I’ve been looking for a place to go in July. Hopefully if I have a lease, I won’t wuss out and stay with Myra for another 10 years. It felt so much easier to leave her when I had you, but I know I’ve lost that now. Hopefully I can still do this for myself._

_I miss you, Rich. I know that’s not fair to say, but there is an 80% chance you threw this letter away the second you realized who it was from. That’s the only reason I have the confidence to say this: I love you, Richie. I love you, I love you, I love you._

_I’m sorry I kept you from saying it before. I missed my one chance to hear you say it, and that’s my cross to bear. But you deserve to hear it from me, Richie. So I’ll say it again. I love you, Richie Tozier. I love your laugh and your pies and your terrible jokes and your hands. ~~God, I love your hands~~. And while I’m sure I lost my opportunity to love you, I don’t think I’ll ever stop. You never forget your first love, right? You’re my first, last, and only love, Richie I can promise you that. _

_If by some miracle, you’re still reading this, let me say one last thing: Thank you, Richie. You gave me the best few weeks of my life. I will never forget you._

_I love you, Richie._

_Forever and Always,_

_Eds_

Richie folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope. He was crying of course, the tears streaming out of the outside corners of his eyes and onto the bed below.

“Good? Bad?” Patty asked, voice quiet. “I need to know how to tailor my hug.”

“Both?” Richie responded, his voice breaking.

“Oh, honey,” Patty rolled over to wrap Richie into a hug. She rubbed his back and carded a hand through his hair, all while Richie sobbed into her chest. “You’re going to be okay,” she said, over and over again.

(Maybe this time, Richie could believe it)

***

On Saturday, the coffee machine at Joe's was still broken, which was unfortunate because the diner was _packed_. Most of the shops and restaurants in town were closed for the holiday, so the residents of Derry flocked to Joe’s for a slice of Richie’s Red, White, and Blue All Over Pie (technically it was a strawberry swirl cheesecake topped with fresh Maine blueberries, but it was only available during the Fourth of July weekend and was a Derry favorite).

In anticipation of high traffic, there were four servers on the floor (Bill, Vicky, and two of the night shift waitresses, Becky and Dawn) and two cooks manning the grill (Mike and Cal) while Richie was relegated to the kitchen, making pie after pie.

Richie quite liked working the holiday shifts at Joe’s. Because he wasn’t waiting tables, he was paid an hourly salary at time and a half. And all he had to do was make pies all day; it didn’t really feel like work at all.

Derry was an aggressively patriotic town, with activities and events going on all day, from the parade through Main Street at noon to the fireworks just after sunset. And because of this tradition of patriotic exhibitionism, Joe always closed up the restaurant in the early evening on the Fourth so his employees could enjoy the festivities with their family and friends.

Richie wasn’t quite feeling up to celebrating this year (he and Bev usually got drunk and watched the fireworks together), so he took his time cleaning up the kitchen and prepping the pies for the next day.

“We’re heading out,” Mike said. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Richie replied, closing the door to the walk-in closed behind him. “I don’t want to intrude on your date night.”

“I w-would s-say you would-d-dn’t be intruding,” Bill said, hanging up his apron, “but that would b-be a l-lie.”

Richie laughed, “thanks for your candor, Big Bill. You two go enjoy yourselves.”

“You don’t need a ride or anything?”

“Nope, Patty lent me her car.” Mike and Bill didn’t move to leave. “I’m fine, really. I’m actually really looking forward to climbing right into bed when I get home.” Richie looked down at his stained and sweaty t-shirt. “After a shower, of course.”

“Alright,” Mike said, still skeptical. “If you change your mind, text us. I’ll even come pick you up.”

“H-he won’t.” Bill grabbed Mikes’ arm, tugging him towards the door. “Let’s g-go, babe.” Mike finally relented. “B-bye, Rich!”

“Bye guys,” Richie called after them.

Richie was just about done in the kitchen, giving the prep table one last final wipe down. He wandered out to the restaurant proper, where Becky and Dawn were just finishing up sanitizing the counter and stools. There was, however, a third figure seated at a table across the diner.

“Joe?” Richie asked, walking over to him.

“Richard,” Joe looked up from his sudoku. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Were you waiting her for me?”

“I was. Ladies?” Joe said, loud enough for Becky and Dawn to hear him. “This place looks great, why don’t you two head out for the night? Richard here will lock up.”

“You don’t’ have to tell me twice,” Becky said, untying her apron. “Happy Fourth, Joe. You too, Richie.”

“Goodnight!” Dawn cheered, following Becky into the kitchen with a wave.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were still here. I could have come out sooner.”

“Oh it’s alright, I have my puzzles anyways,” Joe patted the book in front of him. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Really?” Richie couldn’t help but feel anxious. And when Richie was anxious, he liked to deflect with humor. “Is it about the guy you ate lunch with? Because he’s way too young for you, Joe. He looked half your age!”

(When Richie had brought out a fresh set of pies to the diner, he caught a glimpse of Mr. Maturin eating lunch with an unfamiliar man, around Richie’s age, dressed far too nicely for a pie diner like Joe’s in a town like Derry)

“It is about the man I ate lunch with, but you need to get your mind out of the gutter, Richard,” Joe smacked his arm with his sudoku book.

“Then who is he if not your new beau?”

Joe didn’t respond for a moment, watching Richie carefully. “He’s an aspiring restaurateur.”

“Did he come to you for advice?”

“No,” Joe sighed. “He wants to buy the diner.”

Richie laughed, incredulous. “Did you tell him you weren’t selling?”

“No.”

(It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room)

“What?”

“I invited him here, actually.” Richie didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. “I’m selling the diner.”

“ _What_?”

Joe must have anticipated Richie’s reaction; he didn’t even flinch at Richie’s outburst. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. And it feels like the right thing to do.”

“Why?”

“I’m old Richie, too old to run this place properly—”

“Then hire someone—”

“It’s not that simple,” Joe said, definitive. “I’ve owned this place for almost 40 years. 40 _great_ years, Richard. But I’m tired. And if I can help bring in new businesses and new life to this town...” Joe trailed off, thinking. After a few moments he looked back at Richie, all 80 something years he was evident in his green eyes, “I want that. It’s not the end of Joe’s, it’s the beginning of something else.”

“I still don’t understand.” Richie took a deep breath in order to keep himself from crying. “You love this place. _Derry_ loves this place.”

“I know. And I do love it. But I think it’s time to let it go. End on a high note.” Joe took off his glasses, cleaning them with a little cloth he pulled from his pocket. “I don’t know how much longer I will live, Richie—”

“Joe—” Richie tried to cut in.

“No,” Joe said, cutting him off. “Let me finish. I’d rather choose to close Joe’s now then leave it for you to deal with when I pass.”

Richie blinked at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“A few years ago my lawyer had me revisit my will. I had sold some property that I needed to take out of my estate plans—” Joe paused. “I’m getting off track. I needed to come up with a plan for the diner in the event of my passing, and I named you the beneficiary.”

Richie was almost speechless. “But why? Why me?”

“Why not you?” Joe countered. “Why would I choose anyone else?”

“I’m not related to you, for one. I don’t even have seniority, for two. I could go on and on.”

“If I have to get one thing through that thick skull of yours, Richard Wentworth Tozier,” Joe said, expression turning serious. “It’s this: You _are_ family. We may not be related, Richard, but _you_ are my family.”

Richie, try as he might, couldn’t stop the tears from flowing now. “Joe, I, I—”

“I know, son.” Joe reached out to squeeze Richie’s hand, Richie crying even harder. “I know.”

“It’s good you’re selling the diner now,” Richie joked wetly, “I don’t think I could have handled running this place anyway. Thanks for freeing me of that financial obligation.”

Joe looked at him, brows furrowed, green eyes squinted. “What are you talking about? I’m giving you the money from the sale of the diner.”

“What the fuck?”

(Richie had known this man all his life, and despite being a Trashmouth, he was pretty sure he had never sworn in front of him. Let alone _at_ him)

“That’s why I’m telling you all of this,” Joe said. “About selling and my will. What did you think I was doing?”

“Honestly? I had no idea. I’m just along for the ride, man.”

Joe laughed, incredulous. “Richie. The diner was going to be yours. It is yours. Steve and I haven’t settled on an exact agreement, but the check is being written out to you.”

“I don’t understand. Don’t you need the money?”

“Richard, I promise you I am fine. I have more than enough to live off of. When I pass, what is left of my estate will be liquidated and then given to various charities. Losing the diner will not effect my way of life in any way.”

“I don’t know what to say. Joe, th—"

“Don’t you dare thank me, Richard,” Joe cut in sternly. “It’s what you deserve.”

Richie could feel tears spilling on to his cheeks again, wiping them away with one hand. “What about everyone else? When will you tell them?”

“Monday,” Joe said. “And Steve said that he’d offer anyone I still had on staff a position when he takes over. But I think it’s time that most of you move on. I was glad to see Bev go, she was always destined for more than just waiting tables. Bill needs to get back to writing, and Mike should go put that master’s degree of his to good use.” Joe reached across the table again to take Richie’s hands. “And you...” Joe trailed off; expression uncertain. He cleared his throat. “That brings me to my next piece of business.” Joe leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re fired, Richard. Effective immediately.”

“ _What_?” Richie exclaimed.

“I have here,” Joe pulled an envelope out of his pocket, “your severance package. One month’s pay for every consecutive year you have worked for me.” He slid the envelope across the table and right into Richie’s hands.

Richie, who was still numb after being fired from the only job he’s ever had, opened the envelope. Inside was a check for _twenty-five thousand dollars_.

“What the fuck, Joe,” he said, no longer worried about swearing because was he was _fired_. He looked up to see Joe smiling at him, expression full of amusement. “This is way more than I make in six months.”

“Really?” he said, facetious. “That’s too bad. It’s direct deposit, and the banks are closed till Monday,” he shrugged. “Let’s just call it a wash, I’m sure it makes up for some of the tip money that Bowers kid took from you.”

“Joe—” Richie’s voice was wobbly with tears (again).

“Goodnight, Richard,” Joe stood and stretched. “I should get going, I don’t want to miss the hot dog eating contest.”

Richie remained frozen in his seat. “What the hell am I supposed to do with all this money, Joe?”

He turned to Richie, smiling that all-knowing smile of his. “Open up a pie shop,” he shrugged. “I hear San Francisco is a good place to do that.”

Richie rushed to his feet, closing the distance between them so he could pull the old man into a hug. “Thank you, Joe.”

Mr. Maturin patted him on the back, “I told you not to thank me.”

“I wasn’t thanking you for giving me the money for the diner,” Richie said, pulling back. “I’m thanking you for firing me.”

“You know, I’ve owned this place for almost 40 years, and no one has ever thanked me for firing them.” Joe tucked his sudoku book under one arm. “Make sure you lock up properly, Richard. And I better not see you here on Monday morning.”

“Bye, Joe. Have a good night.”

“You too, son.” The bell above the door jingled when Joe pushed it open. “You too.”

***

Stan and Patty’s house was dark and quiet when Richie pulled into the driveway. His best friends had always enjoyed Derry’s Four of July celebrations, so Richie knew that he would have the house to himself for the rest of the evening.

Richie made himself a sandwich, pulling together anything he could find in the fridge to dress it up a little. He took his meal over to the little breakfast nook in the kitchen, settling down and digging in. On the table was a sleek silver laptop that Richie had been borrowing to look up apartments in Derry.

As much as Richie appreciated Stan and Patty’s hospitality (and as much as they said that he could stay as long as he needed) Richie didn’t like feeling like a freeloader. He wanted to get out of their hair as soon as possible, so he had taken to every real-estate website he could find (he hadn’t yet stooped as far as checking Craigslist, thank god) for rooms available to rent.

But now Richie had 25 thousand dollars burning a hole through his pocket. That would be enough of a cushion for him to justify getting a place to himself, even if he was technically unemployed.

Richie opened up the laptop, but he didn’t refresh the Zillow page; didn’t re-set the filters to one-bedrooms and studio apartments. He opened up a new tab, the blinking cursor in the search bar taunting him.

With a deep breath, Richie typed out his query and pressed enter.

***

Richie had forgotten just how terrible the LaGuardia airport was. In his defense, he had only ever been in it twice, but it really was bad enough that it should have stuck out in his mind.

He finally made it out of the underground terminal and into the July sunshine, blinking at the sudden change in light. It was hot and humid, and he was already starting to sweat through his clothes. With a sigh, Richie adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and the duffle bag in his hand and got into the Uber pick-up line.

He gave his driver the address Eddie had written on the back of the letter, surprised to find that it was not an apartment building, but a restaurant. Richie was apprehensive to go all the way to Washington Heights to check the place out, but it was the only clue Richie had to finding Eddie in this city of 18 million people, so to Dot’s they went.

His driver took them over the East River via the Whitestone Bridge on the northside of Queens. It took about half an hour to get thorough the weekday traffic, Richie thrumming with anxiety the whole way. Thankfully, his driver didn’t try to make too much conversation, so Richie could stare out the window and try not to talk himself out of this whole mess.

(What if Eddie wasn’t there? What if the owner of the restaurant didn’t even know who Eddie was? What if Eddie _was_ there? What if Eddie was there but he didn’t want to see Richie? What if Eddie had moved on already? What if Eddie had met some bright-eyed Columbia graduate with less body hair and more muscle tone than Richie? What if—)

“We’re here,” Richie’s driver said, pulling over on West 163rd Street.

“Oh,” Richie replied, throat dry. “Thanks.”

“You need help with anything?” they asked, turning around to look at Richie.

“No, no, I’m good. Thank you. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Richie climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him. Looking up at the facade of the restaurant, Richie suddenly felt completely out of his depth. Surely he should just get back into another Uber and go to the airport (JFK this time, it really would be worth the more expensive ticket to avoid LaGuardia) and go back home, where Stan and Patty and Bill and Mike would welcome him back with open arms.

(They had also sent him off with open arms, all four of them all too happy to see Richie going to New York. Going after what he wanted)

(Maybe he would just fly back to Bangor and hide out at Bev’s place for a few weeks. What his friends didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, right?)

Like she was a fucking clairvoyant or something, Richie’s phone buzzed in his hand with a text from Patty.

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**  
_I saw that your plane landed an hour ago, so you should be at Eddie’s place by now. You better not have wussed out Richie Tozier or I swear to g-d..._

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**  
😡🔪🔪🔪

Richie couldn’t help but laugh at her use of aggressive emojis, they were words of encouragement in her own, special way.

Richie took a deep breath in and then slowly let it out.

_i’m just about to go in_

_wish me luck_

Patty’s reply was almost immediate.

**Patty Cakes Blum-Uris**  
_You don’t need luck_

Richie tucked his phone into his pocket and walked into the restaurant. He realized, once he was inside, that _restaurant_ was a misnomer. Dot’s was a _diner_. And based on the smell of the place when Richie walked inside? Dot’s was a _pie diner_.

“Seat yourself anywhere!” a middle-aged woman behind the counter said, fiddling with the coffee machine. “I’ll be over in just a minute.”

The place was mostly empty, an older man sat at a booth in the back, nursing a cup of coffee, and two young women having lunch at a table across the room. Seated at the counter was a dark-haired man bent over a newspaper, a half-eaten piece of pie sitting in front of him.

Richie felt himself smile.

He walked up to the counter, settling on a stool two seats away from the other man. The woman came over to him, an order pad in her hand, grabbing a pen that was tucked behind her ear. Her nametag read _Dot_.

“What can I get for you, doll?” she asked, brown eyes sparkling.

Richie looked at the array of pies on display behind her. “Can I get a slice of pecan pie and a cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing,” Dot didn’t bother writing the order down, tucking the notepad away. “Coffee’ll be a minute, though.”

“No rush,” Richie replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man next to him stiffen and straighten up, but Richie didn’t turn to him until Dot had walked away to get his pie.

“Richie?” Eddie asked, his voice tight.

Richie spun on his stool, keeping his expression carefully maintained. “Oh, Eddie? Fancy meeting you here.”

“Fancy—” Eddie laughed, a single, incredulous laugh. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” Richie said, a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. “Thought I’d check this place out. Some guy once told me that they had pretty good pie.”

“Pretty good?” Dot asked, coming back with Richie’s pie. “Sweetheart, my pie is gonna rock your world.”

“Dot,” Eddie said, voice strained. “This is him.”

“Hm?” she hummed, looking over at Eddie. After a moment, she said, “oh! Richie! Right, well.” Dot cleared her throat, stepping away from them. “I think something in the kitchen requires my attention.” She hurried off in the direction of the kitchen, Richie chuckling lowly at her quickly retreating figure.

When he turned back to Eddie, the other man was staring at him openly. To diffuse the tension, he said, “she forgot my coffee.”

“Forget about the fucking coffee!” Eddie slapped a hand over his mouth at his outburst, and Richie had to press his lips together to keep from laughing. When Eddie composed himself, he asked, “what are you really doing here, Rich?”

Richie sighed. “What do you think I’m doing here, Eddie?”

“Honestly?” Richie nodded. “Breaking up with me in person, which I don’t think I deserve. You should’ve just ghosted me, dude. It's what I deserve.”

“I didn't want to do that, Eddie.”

Eddie looked pained. “Because you wanted me to see how bad I hurt you? Because I get it, I fucked up. I ruined the best thing I ever had—”

“Oh my god, for a doctor you’re so fucking stupid,” Richie rolled his eyes, stood up and closed the distance between them, sliding his mouth over Eddie’s in a time-stopping, heart-wrenching, all-encompassing kiss.

“Oh,” Eddie said, pulling back. His eyes slid open, looking up at Richie through his dark lashes.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Richie teased.

“I’m dumb.”

“Completely obtuse.”

“You came all this way to do that?”

“I mean,” Richie sat down on the stool next to Eddie’s. He reached over for his pie, sliding it across the counter. “Not just that. But yeah, that was one of the things on my list. _Go to Time’s Square_. _Kiss Eddie_. _Visit the Statue of Liberty_. _Kiss Eddie_. G _et a picture of me on one of the lions outside of the New York Public Library and send it to Mike_. _Kiss Eddie_ —”

“You can’t climb on the lions,” Eddie said, dark brows furrowing.

(Richie felt his face crack open wide into a smile)

“I know you don’t think I’m very fit, but I promise you I can climb on the lions. They’re not that high up.”

“No, asshole,” Eddie’s hand cut through the air like a knife, “you’re not _allowed_ to climb on the fucking lions. No one is. Though, I still seriously doubt your physical ability. It’s a fucking wonder you could survive a shift at Joe’s. I’ve seen you get out of breath from walking _down_ a single flight of stairs—"

(It was his left hand that Eddie held out, pointed at Richie. The ring on his fourth finger nowhere to be found)

Richie tugged Eddie in for another kiss by the hand that was hovering between them. When he pulled back, he said, “I knew what you meant. I was just fucking with you.” Richie then twined their fingers together, dropping their hands to Eddie’s thigh. “Also, you don’t have to worry about me making it through another shift at the diner because Joe fired me.”

“What?”

“And he’s selling the diner.”

“ _What_?”

“Also, I guess if I’m catching you up on everything, you should know that I’m technically homeless.”

“Richie, what the hell happened? I was gone for like, a month.”

“A lot can happen in a month,” Richie smiled. “Most of it was good. Actually, pretty much all of it was good. But it’s kind of a long story.”

“Well,” Eddie squeezed his hand, returning Richie’s smile (with both dimples, Richie felt like a million bucks), “I’ve got all the time in the world for you.”

So Richie told him everything. The good, the bad, the Connor. He told Eddie about wanting to move into Bev’s old place, but having to give up on that dream. He told Eddie about Bev’s goodbye party, and what it was like watching her drive away. He told Eddie about finally leaving Connor and moving into Stan’s home office. He told Eddie about Joe’s Will and selling the diner and getting fired. He told Eddie about how many times he read his letter, wanting to call but being too scared, that it took Patty finding Richie in front of the computer, cursor hovering over the _purchase ticket_ button to convince him that coming to New York was a good idea.

( _I need to send that woman a fruit basket_ , Eddie said. _You need to send that woman a_ wine _basket_ , Richie countered)

“So,” Eddie said, polishing off his pie, (he also had a slice of pecan, saying it was the closest of Dot’s pie’s to Richie’s, and Richie was tempted to agree) and pushing the plate away. “What’s next? What are you gonna do with the money?”

“What I always said I was gonna do,” Richie shrugged, “open up a pie shop.”

“Do you, uh,” Eddie couldn’t quite meet Richie’s gaze, “have any idea where?”

Richie felt himself smile. “I don’t know. I hear San Francisco is nice this time of year.”

Eddie turned to him slowly, mouth twitching in a barely contained smile. “It’s common knowledge that summer is the worst season in San Francisco.”

“Well, shucks,” Richie snapped his fingers, and slipping into his country farmhand Voice. “I guess that horse is shot in the leg. Three whole months of the year with miserable weather. I think I’ll just head back to the farm and hope that Ma and Pa aren’t too disappointed in me,” Richie moved to get up and grab his bags.

“Wait,” Eddie laughed, grabbing Richie by the arm. “I think I can handle three months of terrible weather. I’ve put up with eleven months of terrible weather a year in New York for the last decade.”

“Well then, Dr. Kaspbrak,” Richie settled back onto his stool, “would you like to come to San Francisco with me?”

Eddie grinned, his eyes crinkling up at the corners he was smiling so wide. “I’d love to.”

Richie grabbed Eddie’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “Eddie, I—”

“Wait,” Eddie cut him off (stopping Richie from confessing his feeling for the _second goddamn time_ , what was wrong with this man?) and took a deep breath. “Can I say something first?”

“Can you make it snappy?” Richie asked, “because this is the second time you’ve done this, and I’m starting to believe you don’t want me to tell you that I—”

“Just hold on,” Eddie cut him off again. He blew out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry for leaving the way that I did, Richie. You didn’t deserve that. And I hope one day you will forgive me for it. But I know that’s a lot to ask, so,” Eddie’s voice was trembling now, Richie squeezing his hands twice to remind him he was there, that he wasn't going anywhere. "If you need an out. If-if you feel like you can’t trust me, I get it. And I won’t hold it against you if you want to end things, okay? Your happiness is the most important thing in the world to me, Richie. And I’m never going to stand in the way of that.”

“Eddie,” Richie said, his own voice trembling. “You make me happy. _You_. I forgive you for leaving. I’m not going to hold it against you. I’m here because I want to be with _you_. Got it? This isn’t some consolation, you are the grand fucking prize, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie nodded. “Okay, hit me with it.”

“Eddie. Eds. Eds Spagheds—”

“Just,” he laughed, “the worst fuckin’ nicknames,” Eddie said tearfully.

“I love you,” Richie said at last. He felt like the words had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks now. It felt so good to say them out loud. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Of course I love you.”

Richie reached up to take Eddie by the cheeks, his freckled skin wet with tears, and kissed him. And kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the angst, but I think it was worth it in the end, don't you? The epilogue should be up in about an hour!
> 
> Specialty pies mentioned in this chapter:  
> [Pretty in Pink Grapefruit Pie](https://www.daringgourmet.com/pink-grapefruit-cream-pie/)  
> [I Don't Give a Fig Pie](https://www.deliciousliving.com/recipe/fig-pie/)  
> [Red, White, and Blue All Over](https://www.bakefromscratch.com/strawberry-swirl-cheesecake-pie/)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always greatly appreciated ♥️


	7. what's inside of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Richie, honey,” Eddie took Richie by the jaw, forcing him to look Eddie in the eye. “Remember when I told you that your mullet was ugly and that you should cut your hair before Bev and Ben’s wedding?”
> 
> Richie wasn’t sure what his less than ideal grooming choices had to do with anything, but he was too panicked to do anything but answer Eddie’s question. “Yes?”
> 
> “So you know that I would never let you do anything that I thought would make you look bad, even at the expense of your feelings?”
> 
> “Yes.” Richie paused, “I liked that mullet.”
> 
> “I know honey, but it was gross.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This short little epilogue is actually 6k words. Whoops?)

_Two years later_

“Why did I think this was a good idea?” Richie asked once he had managed to silence the alarm blaring on his phone.

“Waking up three hours before we have to leave the house?” Eddie yawned, snuggling into Richie’s chest, though Richie did not reciprocate the embrace; his arms laying down at his side. “No fuckin’ clue.” Eddie huffed out an annoyed noise. “Are you gonna cuddle me or not, asshole?”

“Not,” Richie managed to choke out, frozen with anxiety.

Eddie sat up, face drawn together in the half-light of morning. “Rich, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

(Usually when Eddie called him that, _sweetheart_ , Richie could be convinced to just about anything. The dishes. The laundry. Eddie. The list goes on and on)

“Is this a colossally stupid idea?” Richie asked. “It feels like a colossally stupid idea.”

“Richie, honey,” Eddie took Richie by the jaw, forcing him to look Eddie in the eye. “Remember when I told you that your mullet was ugly and that you should cut your hair before Bev and Ben’s wedding?”

Richie wasn’t sure what his less than ideal grooming choices had to do with anything, but he was too panicked to do anything but answer Eddie’s question. “Yes?”

“So you know that I would never let you do anything that I thought would make you look bad, even at the expense of your feelings?”

“Yes.” Richie paused, “I liked that mullet.”

“I know honey, but it was gross.”

“Both of my parents had mullets when they got married,” Richie replied, haughtily.

“I’ve seen the pictures,” Eddie rubbed his thumbs along Richie’s jaw. “And Bev thanked me for not letting you ruin her wedding photos.”

Richie gasped facetiously, “that duplicitous bitch, she said she liked my mullet.”

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but shut it after a moment. “That’s not the point,” he said. “I really, truly, _genuinely_ ,” Eddie emphasized, “believe that this is a good idea.” One of Eddie’s hands carded through Richie’s hair. “And I’m so proud of you.” That was enough to bring tears to Richie’s eyes. He wiped them away, Eddie sighing and pulling him closer. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

“Then stop saying things that make me cry, asshole,” Richie said, voice thick.

Eddie laughed, pressing a kiss to Richie’s forehead. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Rich. I could say that I like your shirt and there’s a 62% chance you’ll start crying.”

“That’s a reasonable reaction! Have you seen my wardrobe? No one likes my shirts.”

“Well, I do. Even when I think they’re ugly, I like that you feel comfortable enough in yourself to wear whatever you want.”

“What the fuck, dude?” Richie said, even more tears coming to his eyes. “Will you please say something mean to me?”

“Is making you horny better than making you cry?” Eddie smiled at him in the half-light. “Anyways, you’re just as likely to cry during sex as you are at any other time.”

Richie snorted out a laugh. “You can’t hold how much I love you against me.”

“I know one thing I’d like for you to hold against me,” Eddie leaned down to lave a line of open-mouthed kisses under Richie’s jaw.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Yes,” Eddie replied, muffled against the stubbly skin of Richie’s neck. “Is it working?”

(One of Richie’s favorite activities was having sex with Eddie. He was pretty sure he would never grow tired of having sex with Eddie. Most days, there was nothing he wanted more than to spend all day in bed with his hot, temperamental, loving boyfriend)

(Today was not one of those days)

“Uh...” Richie trailed off.

“Goddammit,” Eddie swore into Richie’s collarbones. With a heavy sigh, Eddie sat up. “Okay,” he said, composed, “what are you so worried about?”

“What am I _not_ worried about?”

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face before laying down next to Richie and turning onto his side. Richie mirrored him, one of Eddie’s arms tucking around his waist. “Talk me through what you’re thinking, sweetheart.”

Richie sighed. “I’ve only ever had one job; I don’t even have any managerial experience. And I have a fuckin’ degree in _English_. Where the hell do I get off starting a business? And a fuckin’ restaurant, no less? Do you know how many restaurants fail in the first year? _Sixty percent_.”

“That’s not true,” Eddie said, steady as ever. “That’s after three years. Only 30% of restaurants fail in their first year.”

“Eddie, baby, I love you,” (Eddie smiled at him, soft and fond) “but that doesn’t actually make me feel better.”

Eddie sighed, world-weary. “Okay, obviously I need to change tactics. You need some tough love. So,” Eddie’s gaze found his in the low-light of the morning, “what’s the worst thing that could happen if you fail, Rich?”

“I lose all my money,” he said.

“I make enough money for the both of us.”

(That was true, Richie was a kept man)

“I disappoint you and the other Losers.”

Eddie scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, the Losers are, like, impossible to disappoint.”

“I screw over Stan and Patty.”

“Stan is a very talented accountant; he won’t have any trouble finding another job if he needs to.”

Richie paused, his true apprehension just on the tip of his tongue. Eddie brushed a hand up his side, resting it on Richie’s ribcage, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed. “I let myself down.”

“Honey,” Eddie said, scooting closer. “Even if you fail—and that’s a _big_ if—you won’t be letting yourself down. Giving up would be letting yourself down. Never going after what you wanted, would be letting yourself down. Trying something and failing?” Eddie brushed his thumb over the apple of Richie’s cheek. “That’s just proof that you were willing to take a chance on yourself.”

Richie felt tears spring up in his eyes (again). Eddie laughed, a quiet, intimate thing, wiping them away with the pad of his callused thumb. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Richie’s lips. “This is a good idea, Richie. I truly believe that.” Eddie leaned in again, this time for an open-mouthed kiss. Richie felt himself get lost in the slide of Eddie’s tongue; his boyfriend pushing him backwards on to the mattress and climbing on top of him—

There was a beleaguered sound from the foot of the bed, Eddie sitting up and turning toward the noise. Joey, their three-year-old tuxedo cat, was blinking at them impassively from the other end of the bed.

(He had bright green eyes, just like his namesake)

“Joey, baby,” Richie cooed, “come here.” He started making kissy noises at the cat, Joey slinking over to him with faux reluctance. He wormed his way between Richie and Eddie’s bodies, curling up on Richie’s chest, and purring immediately.

Eddie sighed and rolled on to his back, throwing an arm over his face, “I’m not getting laid this morning, huh?”

“Sorry, babe,” Richie said, petting a hand down Joey’s back. “I don’t think I can get out of my head enough to get it up, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s not even a euphemism, dickwad,” Eddie grumbled, though he did reach out a hand to scratch Joey’s head; the annoyance melting off of him. “Okay, I’m going to go make us breakfast.” He rolled towards Richie to press a kiss to his forehead before turning the other way to climb out of bed.

Before padding out of the room, Eddie threw open their curtains, letting in the early morning sunshine. It was deceptively sunny outside, but Richie knew it would be chilly San Francisco day; August meant nothing to the icy fog that covered the city.

Richie took his time getting out of bed, reveling in the warm, heavy weight of Joey on his chest; the calm before the storm to come.

Today was the grand opening of Maggie’s Pies, a little neighborhood pie shop in the heart of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district. It had taken a little longer than Richie had anticipated to open up the bakery, hitting quite a few speed bumps along the way.

Eddie had insisted on staying in New York for the divorce proceedings as a show of good faith to Myra and her lawyers. They had a pretty iron-clad pre-nup, so it didn’t take long for dissolvement of their union

(Myra had gotten the giant wedding portrait in the divorce, and the idea of her burning it in some sort of spiritual cleansing ceremony delighted Richie to no end)

He and Eddie were ready to move to San Francisco as soon as the divorce was finalized, when Joe had gotten sick. So Richie had gone back to Derry while Eddie flew 3,000 miles in the opposite direction.

The three and a half months they spent apart were challenging, time zones and opposinf schedules only multiplying the difficulties of long distance. Every week, Joe had tried to get Richie to leave his side and go to California to be with Eddie at every opportunity, but Richie wouldn’t have Eddie, or their apartment in the Lower Haight, or even the confidence to leave Derry if it weren’t for Joe; so Richie wasn’t going to leave his side.

(It was a cold March morning that Joe passed, peacefully in his sleep, Richie by his side. The funeral was a few days later, Eddie flying up on a red eye to surprise him. He said that he didn’t want to miss the funeral, sure, but he cared more about being there for Richie)

The first time he stepped foot into his and Eddie’s apartment in the city, Richie cried. It was a dream to get out of Derry. A dream to be with Eddie.

A dream to be really, truly, over-the-fucking-moon, happy.

( _Eddie_ made him really, truly, over over-the-fucking-moon, happy)

It had taken a while to find the right place. Richie, while excited to make pies for a living, was hesitant to open up a restaurant. In this economy? Everything was a risk, and he didn’t really know what he was doing.

Richie often called Stan, late at night in Maine, for financial advice. He wasn’t sure what kind of overhead costs would be sustainable in the long run. Was Richie better off running the business out of his home, delivering pies to college students and stoners alike? How long could Richie, reasonably, run the shop on his own before having to hire people? And what about employee salaries and benefits? How was he supposed to know what health insurance plans—

“If you ask me another question,” Stan grumbled, voice scratchy with sleep, “you’re gonna have to pay me.”

(Six weeks later, Stan and Patty were staying in Richie and Eddie’s spare room while they searched for apartments nearby)

Richie wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to go into business with. In the same way that Eddie would never lie to Richie in order to protect his feelings, Stan had a no-holds-barred approach to dealing with the Trashmouth. 

Because Stan was a level-headed person with an MBA in accounting, the approach to opening Maggie’s Pies (though, it didn’t have a name yet) was a long, arduous process. Months of market research and real-estate hunting that made Richie want to beat his head against a wall.

In the end, the perfect place just sort of fell into their laps.

On one of their days exploring the city, Richie and Eddie were wandering around the Haight-Ashbury district when they happened upon a bakery where they were told, upon their admiration of the shop, that they were going out of business in the next few months. Marie and Janet, the lesbian couple that owned and operated Golden Gate Bakes, were looking to retire and settle down.

(Richie couldn’t help but think that it was kismet, like he was meant to find that exact bakery at that exact time)

The next Monday, Richie dragged Stan to Golden Gate Bakes, his business partner agreeing that it was perfect. On Tuesday, they gave Marie and Janet an offer for the shop. And on Wednesday it was accepted.

In the months since they bought Golden Gate Bakes, Richie and Stan had been hard at work to get Maggie’s Pies up and running, and now today was the day. He had two years to prepare for this, and Richie was still overcome with panic and anxiety.

(However, under all the fear was excitement, was pride. Depending on which way you looked at it; Richie had either been preparing for this day for two years or thirty-two years)

Joey was doing an excellent job keeping Richie calm, purring up a storm as he curled up on Richie’s stomach. Just as Richie thought about removing the little limpet and seeking out Eddie in the kitchen, the door their bedroom opened; the man in question slipping inside. Eddie was carrying a precariously balanced tray, piled high with plates and mugs and, adorably, a small vase with a single red carnation.

It was a very sweet gesture, but Eddie was wholly out of his depth, almost sending the whole tray crashing down as he tried to shoulder the bedroom door closed behind him.

“Whoa there, Eds,” Richie said, sitting up. Joey _harrumphed_ indignantly, leaping off of Richie’s chest and disappearing somewhere under their bed. “You’re gonna drop something,” he reached out to steady the tray, Eddie turning away and refusing the help. “Balancing a tray is harder than it looks,” Richie said.

“No fuckin’ kidding,” Eddie grumbled. He took the mugs (empty, save for a single herbal tea bag and a little bit of honey in each) off the tray and placed them on his nightstand. “This is what you get for trying to do something nice for your boyfriend on a stressful day.”

“ _Ain’t no rest for the wicked_ ,” Richie sang, making the corning for Eddie’s mouth twitch.

Eddie placed the tray at the foot of the bed, lifting up the vase and presenting it to Richie. “Happy opening day, asshole,” he said it with so much love that Richie nearly teared up.

“Thanks, Eds,” he replied, voice thick. He took the vase holding it, and the flower close to his chest.

“Jesus,” Eddie sighed; settling on the edge of the bed, and patting Richie’s knee. “Making you cry this many times, this early in the morning must be a new fucking record.” He reached behind him for one of the plates and holding it out to Richie.

On the plate were two perfectly fried eggs, a piece of toast (cut down the middle, just the way Richie liked it) with jam, a few slices of avocado, and an assortment of fruit.

Eddie, being both an early riser and a stringent proponent of eating three square meals a day, usually made them breakfast. Not long after Richie had moved himself into Eddie’s Manhattan rental, Eddie began making them egg-white omelets in the morning.

“What is this shit?” Richie asked, tried and cranky and utterly turned off by the whitish mass of food on the plate in front of him.

“It’s an egg white omelet.”

Richie peered up at him, brain cloudy with exhaustion (Eddie didn’t keep any caffeine on the premises, and would not even allow Richie to do so). “Where are the yolks?”

“There are no yolks,” Eddie sat down next to Richie with his own plate, digging right in.

“Are you feeding me egg whites from a _carton_?”

“All eggs come in cartons, asshole,” Eddie said.

“You know what I mean.”

Eddie sighed; world weary. “Yes, fine. They’re from a carton.”

“And why the fuck are we eating them?”

“Richie, I’ve seen you make pies. I know how much butter you use. If we want to make it past 45, we need to cut down on our cholesterol _somewhere_.”

Richie studied Eddie carefully, “and rather than cut out the pies?”

“We’ll cut down everywhere else. Though, we really shouldn’t eat so many pies.”

“How am I supposed to recipe test, huh?”

Eddie’s mouth twisted to one side in order to hide a smile. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

In the two years since, the two of them had eaten egg white omelets most mornings. Except for Mondays that is, because they were bad enough already; so Eddie would make them regular scrambled eggs, or if Richie was really lucky, sunny side up.

“Wow, thanks, Eds,” Richie said wetly, taking the plate from Eddie.

“Dude, please stop crying,” Eddie said, poking Richie’s knee through the duvet, “I’m starting to get worried.”

“You know that I am a very emotional person,” Richie replied, grabbing his fork and tucking in. “And you are a very good boyfriend, and my brain just doesn’t know how to handle it.”

“Breakfast in bed on one of the biggest days of your life doesn’t make me a good boyfriend,” Eddie scoffed. “That just makes me a decent fucking person.”

Richie sniffed, “dude, you know that my _good boyfriend_ bar is like, subterranean, right?”

“Yes, Richie, I _am_ aware of your very low standards.”

“Cool. These eggs are really good, Eddie.”

“Thanks, babe,” Eddie leaned forward to press a kiss to Richie’s temple. From the kitchen, their kettle started to wail. “I’ll be right back.

Eddie returned with the kettle and filled both of their mugs, giving each one a cursory stir before returning the kettle to the kitchen. Richie waited for him to return before taking one of the mugs.

Like every other millennial, Richie and Eddie had an unnecessarily large collection of mugs. Novelty mugs from Broadway shows. Cute mugs they bought at Target ten minutes before they closed. Eclectic, mismatched mugs from the thrift store down the street that they liked to frequent on weekends. But there was one mug that each of them liked above all the others.

It was a standard white ceramic cup, but the handle was big enough for masculine hands to grip it without then burning your knuckles on the side of the mug. The ceramic was decorated with a kitschy pattern of little smiling green sea turtles that just made you happy by looking at them.

But it wasn’t any of those things that made this mug the most beloved of all. It was their favorite because the mug had belonged to Joe.

When he was sick, Joe had hired a full-time nurse to care for him at home. Richie had practically lived in Joe’s (surprisingly nice) house those last few months of his life, and every day, Richie brought the old man a cup of green tea in his favorite turtle mug.

When he passed, the mug was one of two things Richie took for himself.

(The other was a half finished book of sudoku puzzles)

“Here you go,” Eddie held out the turtle mug for Richie to take, a knowing smile on his face. He lifted the other mug (a chipped dark blue cup that read #1 Grandpa on it that Richie found at the thrift store and then insisted on buying) and lightly tapped it against Richie’s. “Happy opening day.”

“Happy opening day, Eduardo” Richie replied. “I couldn’t have done it without you."

***

Maggie’s Pies didn’t officially open until noon, but Richie wanted to get in extra early to make sure everything was ready to go. Eddie helped him get the first batch of pies in the oven, the smell of sugar and cinnamon and happiness filling the bakery in no time.

Stan and Patty arrived just after eleven, the latter bright-eyed and buzzing. “Are you excited?” she asked Richie, her own excitement rolling off her in waves. She was sitting in Stan’s office chair that she insisted he roll into the kitchen to be close to the action. Patty was under doctor’s orders to stay off her feet as much as possible these days to mitigate the intense swelling of her ankles due to her pregnancy.

(She looked ready to pop any day now, though she was still two weeks out from being full-term. Patty told him that she had a talk with the baby a few days ago, making it clear that they were not to make their debut until Maggie’s Pies was officially open) 

“Yeah, nervous too, though.”

“That’s normal,” Eddie assured him. “It’s a big day.”

“I know, I know.” Richie was itching to crawl out of his skin, but it wasn’t like there was anything more he could do. What's done was done, and either today would be a total hit, or an absolute failure. And you know what? Richie was okay with either. He knew that his friends and his wonderful, amazing, supportive (not to mention _smoking hot_ ), boyfriend would help him pick up the pieces if everything fell apart.

“I’m gonna do a final walkthrough of the store,” Richie said, smiling to himself.

“Alright,” Eddie said, pulling out a few pies and placing them on the cooling rack.

Richie walked out of the kitchen and into the front of the shop. They had updated it a little from how Marie and Janet had decorated Golden Gate Bakes; he and Stan purposefully aiming for a vintage, nostalgic feel as opposed to literal relics of decades past.

The checkerboard tiled floors had been scrubbed clean and waxed to a shine, the dingy old wooden tables and chairs replaced with stainless steel and sparkly red vinyl. There were all kinds of things hung up on the walls. Vintage advertisements, funky old clocks, and neon lights of every color of the rainbow. Literally. Stan had commissioned a giant neon rainbow from a local industrial artist as a gift to Richie, which of course made him cry like a fucking baby.

When Eddie saw the neon rainbow for the first time, he said, “you know people are just gonna come in here to take a picture in front of that for their Instagrams.”

“As long as they’re buying pie,” Stan had said, hunched over their expense reports, double, triple, and quadruple checking them. “I don’t give a shit.”

All the neon signs were on today, giving the room an eerily glow with all the blinds drawn. While Richie didn’t want anyone to see inside before they were officially open, he was more concerned about what he would see (or wouldn’t see) _outside_ before noon.

Richie shook off the anxiety, moving on to the counter. He popped the register open, making sure they had enough small bills and coins to make change. He slid the drawer closed and took stock of their take out boxes and cutlery (all home-compostable, as per Richie's request). At last, he glanced at the two framed portraits hung up on the wall behind the register.

One was of Joe from a few years before he died, sitting at his regular table at the diner smiling brightly; green eyes sparkling behind his thick bifocals. Under Joe’s picture was a little placard reading _Joseph “Joe” Maturin, 1939-2021, Benefactor_.

The second portrait was of Maggie Tozier, baking a pie in her kitchen, visibly pregnant with Richie. Her curly hair was big and wild, as was the trend in 1989. She was mid-laugh, though still obviously posed. Richie assumed it was one of many photos taken that day, a maternity shoot of sorts. He had found the original picture while cleaning out the spare room in the little green house all those years ago. The sight of the little framed photo was enough to knock the air out of Richie. But now, looking at the picture only brought a smile to his face (and occasionally, a tear to his eye). Under Maggie’s photo was a placard that read: _Margret “Maggie” Tozier, 1955-2000, loving mother and pie genius_.

The portraits had been a gift from Eddie, arriving long before they had a diner to put them in.

“I wanted to make sure they got here on time,” Eddie said. “I didn’t want to put it off and then be fucked if they weren’t done in time to go in the shop.”

Richie had cried and cried and cried when he opened them up, holding the framed photos to his chest as he sat on the floor, trying to find a way to convey to Eddie how grateful he was through his tears.

“I know, Rich,” Eddie had said, lowering himself to the living room floor and wrapping his arms around Richie. “I know.”

Richie took a final glance around the room. Everything was in order, the only thing left to do was wait.

***

At 12:00 PM on the dot, Richie opened up the doors to Maggie’s Pies. He was shocked into silence to see a line of people down the block, all standing behind a pair of familiar, smiling faces.

Bill and Mike had moved out to California last January. Mike was working on a PhD at UC Santa Cruz, Bill following him all the way across the country. They were doing well, Mike had a Graduate Research Assistant position at the library, and Bill was working on a third book. His second novel, _The Black Rapids_ , had been picked up by an LA-based publisher and had much better reviews than _The Attic Room_ from critics and readers alike.

(Not that Richie had read either of them yet. He was a very busy man these days!)

The two of them tried to come up every other weekend or so, though Richie had assured them that their presence for opening day wasn’t necessary as both of them had deadlines coming up (Mike’s dissertation proposal was due and Bill needed to get a first draft to his editor). Needless to say, Richie was surprised into tears to see the two men bundled up against the chilly wind right outside the door.

“He’s already crying,” Stan, who was pulling up the blinds, said to Eddie and Patty. “You two owe me money.”

“You guys are the worst,” Richie said, wiping his face. He turned back to Bill and Mike. “Not you guys, you guys are awesome.”

“Like we would miss this day for the world, Richie,” Mike said stepping forward to hug him; strong arms going around Richie’s back.

“Will you l-let us in already?” Bill complained. “It’s fucking f-freezing out here!”

(In the months since he left Derry, Bill’s stutter had almost completely disappeared. Richie figured standing out in the cold for god knows how long, did not do him any favors)

“Right, right,” Richie said thickly. “Come on in.”

Bill and Mike made their way inside, greeting Stan, Patty, and Eddie as the bakery filled up with customers. Richie made his way to the register, sidling up to where Eddie was standing.

“You couldn’t have held out until the first sale?” he asked. “I lost a lot of money on that bet.”

“You’re such an ass,” Richie pressed a kiss to Eddie’s temple. “Did you know Bill and Mike were going to be here?”

“I did.”

“Where are they staying?”

“A hotel, I think?” Eddie shrugged. “Apparently it’s Mike’s engagement gift.”

Mike proposed over the summer, taking Bill up into the mountains and popping the question. Bill had cried through the whole damn proposal, not even really hearing what Mike had to say once he had gotten down on one knee.

The two men were practically glowing, Richie’s chest growing warm with happiness for his two friends whenever he saw them. Who would’ve thought?

( _I always thought_ , Mike had confessed to Richie once over half a bottle of rosé. _Hoped, dreamed, prayed. I’ve loved him as long as I’ve known him, I think_ )

“Excuse me,” a woman said, “I have a question.”

Richie turned his attention to her. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“What pie do you recommend?”

“Well, I make the pies, so I recommend all of them,” Richie grinned, the woman laughing lowly. “What's the pie for?"

“My daughter is having a dinner party tonight and I’m supposed to bring dessert.”

“Well,” Eddie said, cutting in, “can I recommend today’s special, Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie?”

“What’s in that?”

“It’s a spiced chocolate ganache topped with fresh strawberries all in our signature pie shell,” Eddie said. He glanced at Richie sidelong, smiling brightly. “It’s one of the best pies I’ve ever eaten.”

(Richie wanted to grab Eddie’s stupid handsome face and kiss him right there, but that seemed like a health and safety violation)

“He has to say that,” Richie cut in, “he’s my boyfriend.”

“Trust me,” Eddie implored to the woman. “I’ve tried all of his pies; this is one of the best.”

“But which one _is_ the best?”

“My favorite is The Lonely Manhattan Pie,” Eddie pointed to it in the pastry case. “But it’s one of our signature pies, so you can get it any time. Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie is only available on special occasions.”

“Well,” the woman said, smiling, “you’ve sold me. I’ll get one of the special pies and a slice a slice of the Lonely Manhattan Pie to go, please.”

“Alright, I’ll ring you up over here,” Eddie pointed her towards the register, squeezing Richie’s arm as he passed.

“Excuse me,” a young man said, stepping up to the counter. “I’m looking to buy some pie.”

Richie smiled at him, “well, you’ve come to the right place. What can I get started for you?”

***

There was a steady stream of people all day, even after the initial rush of customers. Stan had retreated to the kitchen to put the next batch of prepared pies in the oven while Richie manned the counter, answered questions, and made recommendations.

Most of the people coming through were locals and regular customers of Golden Gate Bakes who were excited to have a neighborhood bakery again. There were a few tourists, however, most of them staying to eat their slices and (as Eddie had predicted) take pictures in front of the giant neon rainbow.

(Richie was so overcome with emotion at how well everything had gone, but he was able to keep himself composed by sheer professionalism alone)

Bev and Ben came in at about one. Richie knew that they were in the city, so he didn’t have the emotional reaction that he had when he saw Bill and Mike.

“Wow!” Bev exclaimed, looking around at the packed bakery, “what a great turn out!”

“I know,” Richie replied. “I guess Stan was right about advertising all along.”

“Of course I was right,” the man in question said, bringing out a tray of pies. “I don’t know why you thought advertising for a new business was a _bad_ idea.”

“I think I’m just used to disagreeing with everything you say,” Richie shrugged.

“Of course you are—” the rest of Stan’s retort died on his tongue, a woman coming up to the counter to ask him a question.

“Have you guys sold out of anything yet?” Ben asked.

“It’s only been an hour, Benny boy,” Richie replied, restocking the case with the fresh pies. “We’ve done good, but not that good.”

“Well,” Eddie corrected, coming out of the kitchen with a fresh roll of quarters for the register.

“Well what?” Richie asked, smirking.

Eddie, just rolled his eyes, not giving Richie the satisfaction of fucking with him. “You know I was correcting you. Get back to work.”

“I am working!” Richie gestured to the open pastry case and the last pie on the tray.

“It looks like you’re chatting with your friends. Hi, Bev, Hi, Ben.”

"Hi, Eddie," the lovebirds said in unison.

“Now who’s chatting with our friends?”

Eddie cocked an eyebrow at him, “I’m trying to make a sale,” he said to Richie before turning his attention to the couple. “You guys gonna buy some pie, or what?”

Bev laughed, giving Eddie their order (a slice of key lime for her and strawberry rhubarb for Ben). She paid and led her husband over to a free table in the corner.

The two of them had gotten engaged a little less than a year after Bev had moved to Bangor. It was a quick engagement, the lot of them convinced that she was pregnant until Bev had angrily sent them a video of her chugging a pint of beer to dispel the rumors. They had a private ceremony on the beach in Malibu, flying all the Losers out to be there. Richie had walked her down the aisle, stood next to her as she said her vows, and cried through the entirety of his best man speech.

(He had actually cried through the whole day, only avoiding passing out from dehydration because of Eddie)

The last time Bev and Ben had been in San Francisco she told him that Ben was opening up a satellite office in Oakland, just across the Bay, and that they would be moving there within the year. It was even better news than if they were pregnant (though, he hoped that would happen soon, Baby Blum-Uris was going to need a friend their own age to play with)

(Everything was coming up Richie, it seemed. He was living in an incredible city with all his friends nearby, and cohabitating with the love of his life. He had his dream job, his dream guy, his dream life)

(Sure, he had experienced terrible loss and heartbreak. But all of that bad shit brought him here, to the happiest he had ever been. And not because good things were happening to the people he loved most, but because good things were finally, _finally_ , happening to him)

***

They sold out of Maggie’s Chocolate Strawberry Oasis Pie first, then the signature pies started going. They were down to half a strawberry rhubarb and a single slice of pecan at the end of the night, Stan closing down the front of the bakery while Richie handled the kitchen.

“We’re gonna head out,” Stan said, a sleepy-looking Patty in tow.

“Congratulations boys,” she yawned.

“I was a pretty great day, huh, Rich?”

Richie felt a smile spread over his face, unbidden. “One of the best days I can remember.”

“Have you stopped freaking out?” Eddie asked.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Richie said. “But I think it’s at a manageable level. Now that the opening is out of the way, I only have to worry about us not going completely belly up.”

“Don’t worry, Rich,” Stan patted him on the back. “I won’t let us fail that bad.”

“That’s not actually very comforting, Staniel.”

He shrugged, “you’ll just have to deal because we’re in this together, right?” Richie just nodded; his voice too thick to respond. “Oh my god, he’s crying again,” Stan said to Patty. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Get home safe!” Eddie called after them.

Once they were alone, Eddie put down the pan he was drying with a hand towel and came over to where Richie was standing. “How are you really doing?” he asked.

Rather than respond right away, placating his boyfriend, Richie took a moment to think and evaluate his feelings. “I’m really, really good, Eds.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m scared out of my fucking mind, but in a good way, I think. I’ve been through hard shit before, but none of it felt like it was serving me in any way. Even if we have to close in a year,” Richie took a steadying breath, “I’m going to be proud of myself for doing this.”

When he looked over at Eddie, he was surprised to see that the doctor was crying. Richie hadn’t seen Eddie cry often, and only from happiness twice.

(The first time was two years ago, when Richie told him that he loved him, and the second was the first night they spent together in San Francisco)

“I’m so, so proud of you, sweetheart,” Eddie choked out, taking Richie’s face in his hands. “And you deserve every ounce of happiness that you’re feeling right now.”

“Stop it,” Richie said, his voice thick.

“No,” Eddie replied, steadfast. “I am so fucking lucky to get to love you, you know that Richie Tozier? You’re the best damn thing that has ever happened to me.” Richie was too overcome with tears to respond, Eddie taking the opportunity to continue showering him with compliments. “I don’t think I deserve you, but you make me feel like I do.”

“Are you proposing right now?” Richie asked, mostly joking. Though, if Eddie was proposing he was going to need another minute to compose himself (he wasn’t going to miss his proposal like a certain stuttering horror novelist because he was crying too much).

“No, no,” Eddie assured him, but there was a mischievous glint to his eye. “You’re gonna know when I’m proposing, asshole.”

“Oh. Cool,” he managed.

Eddie’s devious expression only grew, brown eyes twinkling. “I’m going to propose to you one day, Richie Tozier. And when I do, you’re better fucking say yes.”

“Don’t worry, Eds,” Richie said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to say anything else."

Eddie (finally) pulled him down into an open-mouthed kiss, his arms wrapping around Richie’s neck and fingers tangling in his hair. Richie’s hands slid around the doctor’s back, feeling the expansion and contraction of his ribs as he breathed, and the rapid tattoo of his heart.

It was Richie who had to pull away first, breathless from kissing and the sheer exhaustion of an exciting day. Eddie smiled up at him (with both dimples, and Richie couldn’t help but lean back down for one last peck) and combed Richie’s hair away from his face.

“Hey, before we head out,” he said, turning away from Richie. “Will you share a slice of pie with me?” He turned back with the last piece of pecan pie in one hand and two forks in the other.

“You know, Eds,” Richie said taking one of the forks, “there’s nothing I’d rather do more.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe it's all over! This fic is officially the longest thing I have ever written, and it was originally supposed to be a sweet little 30k story about love and pie (and how sometimes those are the same thing). I am so happy that this story resonated with some of you. Writing this fic was cathartic for me in way that I hadn't anticipated, and I'm glad that the same could be said for some of you as well. 
> 
> (My own family has a history of breast cancer, and while I'm haven't been as brave as Richie to get the BRCA test; after writing this fic, I feel like someday I will be)
> 
> Thank you for all your kind comments and messages, if I could bake a pie for each and every one of you I would! 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/andtimestood/) and on Tumblr [here](https://andtimestoodstill.tumblr.com/).


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